


Dead End - Petrified

by Prototype_UP77



Series: Dead End [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood Drinking, Character Turned Into Vampire, Corruption, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Murder, Original Character(s), Slow Build, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:33:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 73,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27664763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prototype_UP77/pseuds/Prototype_UP77
Summary: While Harry discovers traces of an intruder who seems to be following him, another wave of mysterious murders overruns the country. When he is attacked by a vampire, it is already too late to realize the connection between the events. How long can you hold the upper hand in a battle against your own nature? Post-War, Dark Harry, Vampires, HP/DM, SlashTranslated from german.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy
Series: Dead End [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2040046
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

Blindly, Harry staggered through the swarming darkness. The rot that surrounded him seemed to lie on his lips, penetrate his mucous membranes and slow down his blood flow. He knew that if he kept walking, it would penetrate him and infect his heart, irreversibly. Filled with morbid fascination, he walked on slowly.

His hesitant steps splashed quietly through a puddle and for some reason he knew that it consisted of that darkness that surrounded him. Quick, excited gasps of breath came out of his mouth and seemed to be thrown back a thousand times by the distant walls. It was freezing cold.

Stoically he went on. When he set his foot on a firm surface he wanted to exhale with relief, but only a second later a jerk went through the floor and he swayed, but there was nothing to hold on to. Even as he was falling forward, he imagined that it must have been a floor plate, underneath it a switch, and because he had operated it, metal spikes would shoot out of the ground and receive and impale his body with their relentless hardness. He was sure he had seen something like this in a video game once.

Nothing like that happened. He instinctively caught the fall with his hands and the smell of the brackish rot penetrated his nose unhindered, wooed his mind, and a second later he saw torches flaring from the corners of his eyes, one after the other, on the walls. Shivering, he straightened up until he knelt and looked around in the twilight.

In fact, the room was vast and looked like an ancient temple with images carved into the milky glistening walls. Harry knelt in the middle of the round room, on a large emerald green floor slab from which a faint glow radiated. It lay in a trench filled with a dark, billowing liquid - so that was what he had just waded through. The stench seemed to emanate from there.

Disgusted, he shook himself and then tried to identify the creatures on the walls, but he could not match them to any species he was familiar with. Apart from that, they seemed to change permanently. No sooner had he noticed their humanoid proportions than they grew claws, each one as long as his arm. The outlines were already blurring, becoming wider, monstrously huge.

As if under a spell, he stared at the walls, but the longer his gaze lingered, the less he could see. He shook his head and the moment his eye contact with the creature's glowing eyes broke on the wall, he heard the shuffling sound of powerless footsteps.

He turned his head in the direction the steps seemed to come from. A wild, effervescent panic puckered through his veins and suddenly he knew he would die here.

In the shadows of a mighty archway, he perceived a movement and although, almost completely overwhelmed by fear, he wanted to squeeze his eyes together and never open them again, he looked towards it, the essence of his personal nightmare. So many nights this attracting, repulsive dream had accompanied him and now he would finally see her.

The proportions of the figure were female, but breast and lap were covered by shiny scales, which seemed to be arranged rather randomly on her brittle skin. The fingernails scraped impatiently across the creature's flesh, leaving cracks that gaped without bleeding. Her face was hidden behind a curtain of shaggy, thick hair, which rather reminded of rotting straw.

A metallic taste spread in his mouth as the being that had so powerlessly shuffled to him just a few moments ago suddenly straightened up. He was sure that she towered above even Hagrid in her full size. A strange croaking, deep pecking sounded and she shook her head. The hair rug swung languidly from her face, which looked as if it had been split in half. Instead of a mouth, she had a gaping hole and her eyes were as black and deep as if they contained the entire universe.

She grew, higher and higher, until she was so big that she had to break through the ceiling - then she bent down towards it. Close, way too close, Harry looked up at her mouth, from which an intoxicating stench was pouring, and long, sharp teeth were breaking through her shimmering gray gums. He had never seen anything so horrible. He could not move.

"I'll consume you," she thundered and saliva threads ran down her chin like liquid cobwebs. "Your power will warm my stomach."

As she bent down deeper, biting through his chest without hesitation, he drove out of sleep bathed in sweat.

* * *

Panting and with trembling fingers, he brushed his hair from his face and bent out of bed over the floor, waiting for the nausea that had taken hold of him to subside. A metallic taste had spread in his mouth as if he had bitten his tongue in a dream. After what felt like an eternity, he straightened up again and then groped for the glasses that lay on the nightstand. After he had put them on laboriously, he felt calmer, for the room in the Burrow, in which he had slept since the victory over Voldemort, lay abandoned before him.

The cool night air gave him goose bumps on his bare arms and brought with it the smell of approaching summer and fog. He stood up shivering, anxious to keep his eyes on the ground, knowing that he was not yet ready for the sight that was to come - those few minutes of pretending that everything was fine were essential to getting through the next day.

His gaze wandered languidly over the sweater he had carelessly tossed aside the night before and caught hold of a grubby, still rolled up newspaper lying next to his suitcase. He could see a small photograph of a hand reaching for something dark. Completely unimportant. He breathed more calmly.

For thirteen days he walked through this nightmare, awoke trembling, sometimes with a face soaked in sweat, sometimes with tears. And if it was only that, only a dark, ominous dream that plagued him, he would go into the next day with joy. But it was not. He was sure that he was gradually losing his mind.

He rubbed himself over the cold skin on his arms and shook his head, clawing the flesh over his heart with his other hand. Every time he met his death in this temple, this spot hurt as if someone had driven a red-hot iron into his chest. For a moment Harry allowed himself to squeeze his eyes together.

And then he lifted his head and looked out into the dark night and the hairs on the back of his neck straightened up.

Again. His arms clapped powerlessly against his hip. Again the window was open. Harry stared at the curtain, which gently billowed and seemed to dance with the wind. A desperate laugh distorted Harry's pale face as he remembered how he had closed the window. He had even jiggled the handle several times to make sure he was not mistaken.

Slowly he staggered closer to the desk, which was under the window, and reached for his wand. Routinely he swung it and checked the protective spell he had put on the Burrow days ago - it had not been broken. Nothing had entered or left the grounds.

Harry leaned his arms on the windowsill and looked down at the billowing grass, shining silvery in the moonlight. Looking for any sign of an intruder who might have managed to circumvent his protection spell. It was completely silent, as if the world, unnoticed by him, had suddenly ended. The thought of it lay like a bitter balm on his sore chest. When everything ended, so did his dreams. The looks he could sometimes feel in his neck when he was alone. The soft breath that would occasionally hit his skin. The sounds that made him flinch. And whatever or whoever tore up his nerves by constantly opening that damn window.

Waiting for the morning, he leaned against the cold windowpane and imagined waking up one day and blinking into the sunlight, confused about having slept through a whole night. Spared from inner pressure and fear, healed by the passing of time. Someone would have waited for him, asked him how he had slept, and he would answer. A normal conversation where no comfort or shame would be necessary, where it would not be about the grief of another person.

Harry smiled bitterly and watched the dawn and the world turn into shadows. An ordinary, happy day. He would probably have to keep waiting for it.

At some point - Harry couldn't remember when exactly - he had stopped observing. When an owl approached from a distance, a small, dark spot in the sugary orange sky, he smiled at himself and his damned self-pity. He might be the hero of a nation, but that did not change the fact that he was responsible for his own happiness. Or would be. If he felt that he could somehow achieve it.

The owl seemed to head straight for him, a thick, curled newspaper in its beak, and when it landed, it swept a large flowerpot from the windowsill, which rolled undaunted loudly across the ground, scattering earth and plants. It was so inept that he had to laugh. Every night he had tried to be as quiet as possible, and then the Daily Prophet's shipping department sent him an owl so large that it struggled to find a foothold on the windowsill and then immediately redecorated the floor.

Grinning, he accepted the newspaper and stroked the smooth plumage of the owl. It flew away, not without flapping its wings once more and sweeping a cup of pens from the table.

Contrary to his morning routine, he sat down at his desk and unrolled the newspaper. Usually he avoided it, because since his victory over Voldemort, the reporting had consisted either of sob stories about people who had died in the war (Harry shuddered at such articles, because they held up the people he had not been able to save) or of praise for himself, and there was nothing he detested more than this constant riding on his achievements - by journalists who didn't know shit about it.

Preparing himself inwardly to find one or the other, he looked down and faltered, suppressing a sudden nervous cough in his throat.

"Another mysterious nightly death" was written in thick letters above the photo of a dark corner between two houses. Possibly it was attacks by the Death Eaters, who were still at large. Teeth clenched in his lower lip, Harry began to read the short article.

"In the night from Tuesday to Wednesday, unexplained deaths occurred again. A wizard and a witch were found in the early hours of the morning by a passer-by in Diagon Alley. No clues could be found that would prove what exactly led to their deaths, nor have they been identified so far.

The Ministry does not comment on the investigations. No information has been given on the twenty-four deaths in the last three weeks either.

A spokesman for the ministry warns the population not to leave the house at night."

Harry's hand, which had been stroking along the lines read, trembled when the article ended abruptly. No apparent cause of death - as if they had been carried off by a curse? He exhaled slowly. Or the ministry deliberately kept the information under lock and key to avoid worse.

Ha, he thought bitterly, at least now they will stop with the half-truths and speculations. Without getting his hopes up, he flipped through the rest of the paper in almost unseemly haste for something interesting, but in fact it seemed as if they were keeping silent on the important issues - as if it would reassure him to find an article about some magical rock band's show gone wrong or the engagement of some -

He stared at the photo in pique and Malfoy's strained smiling face. He stood frozen next to a girl who had apparently developed a strong escape reflex. In the moving picture, her arm twitched and her slender body turned to the side as if she would run away in the next moment.

Distracted from the deaths, Harry grinned gloatingly and watched the girl as she presented to all the world in a permanent loop how unhappy she was about this engagement. Malfoy himself was not happy about it either. His eyebrows were drawn together, a thick wrinkle in between, and he looked contemptuously into the camera, hating every second of it.

Quickly, Harry separated the page from the newspaper and put it on the desk next to him to gloat over Malfoy's misfortune.

* * *

"What happened?," a voice in his back asked whisperingly, and Harry flinched, his foot bumping against the leg of the table. "Oh Harry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you."

"That's all right," he pushed out between his teeth and turned around, massaging his aching foot. Hermione stood in the middle of the room, eyes fixed on the overturned flowerpot. Her bushy hair was disheveled and framed her face like a hedge of thorns. "You look tired."

"I couldn't sleep. I guess you couldn't either." She smiled slightly, but the worried look in her eyes remained.

"No." He gritted his teeth until they began to hurt to suppress the impulse to confide in her, for he was aware that she was stuck in a similar situation to his. She was now also part of a grieving family, a part that tried to help everyone without ever thinking of herself. The lonely part that swallowed everything and hoped for better times. His eyes fell on her hands. The little fingers were clawed in the hem of her blouse. He could not force himself on her as well.

"What happened to the flowerpot?" She crouched down and picked it up, filled the potting soil in like a Muggle with her bare hands. It was strangely comforting to watch her do it.

"I can pick that up," he said anyway, but without making any effort to move. Hermione stuck the plant into the earth and looked up. "The owl that brought the Daily Prophet knocked it over. I swear, they get bigger every year." She burst out laughing and Harry smiled too.

Carefully she carried the pot back to the windowsill, looking at the side of the Prophet that had been cut out. "Well, I would not have expected that now. Astoria Greengrass - she was in my course for ancient runes. I didn't get the impression that the two had much to do with each other."

"Maybe that's why she wants to leave," Harry said with a dark pleasure in his voice.

"I would run away from that situation whether Malfoy talked to me or not." She took the photo in her dirty hands and looked at it scrutinizingly.

Harry gurgled. "Not sure which one of you two would have got out sooner."

Suddenly, the cheerfulness vanished from Hermione's face as if it had dripped from her trains. "Harry, I've been thinking."

He swallowed and looked her straight in the eye. "And -"

"Never in my life have I felt so - so lonely and cold and useless. And Ron is getting worse instead of better. He has to get out of here. I -" She faltered and nervously stroked a strand of hair behind her ear. Then she looked at him, eyebrows pulled together as if she felt sorry for Harry. "I will go to Australia and bring my parents back. And Ron's coming with me."

Harry was waiting to see if she would say anything else. He smiled reassuringly and, he hoped, encouragingly in her direction, but never looked her in the eyes again, for he suddenly felt as if his friends were deliberately leaving him here in this dark loneliness. "It will certainly do him good to get out of here," he said emphatically and cheerfully.

"Harry. I'm sorry." She put her hand on his shoulder, too long for a simple, friendly gesture, too short to be comforting. "We just have to..."

"Really. It's a good idea." Harry looked at the photo, hoping to bring out a real smile, although his chest felt empty by now.

"You should go away with Ginny. Focus on something nice." She smiled indefinitely, then walked away quietly.

Hours later, Harry was still sitting at his desk, staring at the dirt crumbs that surrounded the newspaper article and thinking about how he would get through the next days, weeks, months. Nothing could have prepared him for this situation, no escape, no fight, no threat could compete with this emptiness, which was only occasionally torn apart by horrible nightmares and open windows.

As he stood up to stretch his stiff muscles, his gaze fell out on the yard. Ron and Hermione stood amidst a few suitcases and were alternately hugged by Molly Weasley, who sniffed at a white handkerchief in between. Ron looked jittery and nervous as he picked up one of the suitcases and then put it down again when his mother pressed him once more, but he looked much more hopeful than in the last few days.

Although Harry felt sorry for himself, he had to agree with Hermione - it would do Ron good. He only wished she had asked him to accompany her.

Harry snorted. Of course, he would have declined that offer. Not for the world did he want to feel like a fifth wheel again.

He watched Ginny wistfully as she stepped forward and leaned her forehead against Ron's chest, closing her eyes for a brief moment. A faint smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he watched Ron half extend his arms as if he wanted to put them around his sister's back and then look at Hermione with a strangely desperate expression.

The sight of Ginny made his decision falter for a moment, because the desire to simply pack her up and take her on vacation to America or Asia tore at his chest. But then he thought of disgusting monsters, temples, open windows and looks of no one burning on his skin and tore himself away from the sight of his former girlfriend.

He would not drag her into this. Not until he knew what was wrong with him. With his jaw tightly clenched, he turned away and began packing his things.


	2. Chapter 2

Although Grimmauld Place 12 was not held together by mere magic and was in a generally better condition than the Burrow, Harry could hear the old house breathing when it was particularly quiet. It cracked and creaked and not infrequently he flinched and turned around quickly, expecting an attacker.

In such moments, he either looked into Kreacher's startled, widened eyes - or at the grayish wallpaper. Overexcited, as he was, it occurred to him more than once how the basilisk had slipped through the pipes in the walls in his second year of school, audible only to him, and a nervous feeling of threat bubbled up cold in his stomach, like the hunch of a danger that would only reveal itself to him later.

His life passed in a fog of tiredness, unasked questions echoing through his empty mind, and muffled fear that overpowered every creak and made his heart race. Despite his reluctant move to Grimmauld Place, nothing had changed. Every day began in the same way, with a raging pulse in the darkness of the night, next to an open window, a disgustingly metallic taste in his mouth, choking. The tedious hours until dusk, crawling along painfully. An owl brought a newspaper in which a new nightly victim was reported, cause of death unknown; and it was as if the final battle had never taken place.

Thus he initially flinched in shock when, trembling despite the warm morning, he staggered into the entrance hall, the world running into each other in tired streaks, and found the small mail table groaning under a mountain of colorful boxes. Next to him was another stack that reached up to Harry's hip. Slowly, his brain began to work and the fear disappeared from his consciousness for a short time. Today was his eighteenth birthday.

On unsteady legs he staggered past the pile on the table and held on to the stone door frame that led into the kitchen like a small archway, a slight melancholy in his stomach. In the past, as a small, lonely boy, he would have longed for such a multitude of gifts, for people who thought of his birthday. But this year, the day was only a reminder of how long he had been plagued by this personal nightmare. For two months now, he has not been able to sleep all night.

A delicious smell of freshly baked bread came from the kitchen. Harry watched as Kreacher prepared a breakfast that would have been sufficient even for a starving Quidditch team. To Harry's tired eyes, it looked as if his pale hands were moving so fast that they turned into white streaks that flew through the air and prepared bread on the table, fried eggs and sausages, prepared tea. As he placed a candelabra of tarnished silver on the table and lit the candle stubs, Harry smiled faintly, for the scene now looked as if he was hosting a historic state reception.

"Are you expecting guests, Kreacher?" Harry asked. His unused voice scraped rough along his throat.

Kreacher turned and looked at Harry with big, pale eyes. "Master Harry has not eaten for a long time. Kreacher thinks he should have a real breakfast on his birthday." Then he turned away and hurried to the old stone oven. He opened the metal flap with a pot cloth and took a round cake pan out of the flames, and a sticky-sugary smell mixed with the smell of fresh bread. Harry's stomach knotted and began to growl.

He still did not feel like eating, but after Kreacher had made such an effort, he would have felt ashamed if he had refused from the start. So he let go of the archway and sat down at the head of the ridiculously filled table in front of the covered plate. Only a second later Kreacher had rushed over and piled up several pieces of sticky syrupy cake in front of him.

"Stop, Kreacher. Let me take it slow!" Harry smiled weakly and raised his arms to prevent him from squeezing the seventh piece to the edge of the plate.

"Kreacher knows he loves syrup cake and Master Harry is as thin as a beggar."

"Which will not change if you stuff me today." Harry watched as Kreacher slowly arranged the tray on a sideboard, between a large plate of sausages and a fruitcake. "When did you get up for this?" Harry asked, astonished.

Kreacher proudly stood up in front of the sideboard and seemed to grow a few inches. His face twisted and Harry was sure he was smiling. "Kreacher was up all night to offer Master Harry something he liked."

At that moment, when the memory of Dobby was evoked in Kreacher's pride for an almost nonsensically high service, Harry put a whole piece of cake in his mouth at once to distract himself. Kreacher bowed his head appreciatively. "Well, thank you," Harry said indistinctly and chewed hard. He felt a viscous blob of caramel syrup running from the corner of his mouth, slowly but surely driven by his chewing movements.

Once he started, it wasn't hard to take the second piece and bite into it. He took the time to reach for the cake fork with his sticky fingers, and for a brief moment he felt like Dudley - though for reasons other than sheer greed. While Harry was eating, an idea came to him and he wondered why the heck he didn't think of it until now. He swallowed impatiently.

"Kreacher, has anyone entered this house tonight? You were awake all night and must have realized what was going on -" He interrupted himself and looked at the elf waiting.

"No one entered the house, except for owls, hundreds of them, all of whom came fluttering with the gifts like rats. Kreacher had to clean when they were gone." He shivered and looked at Harry with watchful eyes. "But Kreacher had often noticed, since Master Harry returned, that things were in different places than usual."

"You mean he - or it - moves things, like a poltergeist, perhaps?" With growing excitement, Harry straightened himself up. If that was the explanation, there would be a solution. Harry hadn't noticed before that it was putting things in other places, but given his chaotic attitude, he was not surprised.

Kreacher tilted his head. "A poltergeist that is always invisible? Kreacher does not know if such a thing exists. The poltergeists Kreacher knows are annoying show-offs."

Harry thought of Peeves, who was only happy when he could wreak havoc and was always gloating when others suffered from his pranks. Were other poltergeists more subtle, not longing for the glory in which Peeves loved to bask? "Whatever it is, it has followed me from the Burrows."

"Then it cannot be a man. And not an elf. Master Harry knows that this noble house is safe from intruders. Not against everyone, of course." He cast a poisonous glance at the gifts in the entrance hall.

Harry was aware that it would be a hard job to get rid of a poltergeist, but this explanation alone took a great weight off his shoulder. Confidently, he considered that his nightmares were probably simply an expression of his fear of the unknown assailant that had plagued him for so long and would disappear with time. Why didn't he think of it earlier? So many times Peeves had annoyed him.

"How many owls were there?" Harry asked, grinning. Encouraged, he stuck his fork into the cake.

"Only one at first. Kreacher opened the window and immediately regretted it. Before he could pick up the first present, there were a hundred screeching birds in the parlor and dropped parcels everywhere. And more." The corners of his mouth sank even further. "Kreacher thought the owls were attacking the house."

"Their weapons were feathers and their remains."

"And gifts," Kreacher added gloomily and sighed heavily. Harry tried to hold back a laugh and choked on the cake.

Panting and coughing, he reached for the cup of black tea when there was a knock at the door. At that moment the portrait of Mrs. Black broke out into long drawn-out lamentations. Kreacher groaned and wrapped a kitchen towel around his neck like a scarf before trotting to the door.

"Miserable blood traitors - mudbloods -"

Harry tried to ignore the screeching and emptied the cup in one go. A reassuring feeling of normality, of composure, had gripped him. In the bright light of the morning - and of realization - his fear seemed silly to him. Perhaps he had felt so lost after defeating Voldemort and thus fulfilling his greatest task, that he had even conjured up the spook himself. He was sure that he had heard of such phenomena at some point.

"Good morning, Harry," said a quiet voice and Harry turned around. In the doorway stood Kingsley, tall and dark, with a smile on his face. But the edges under his eyes made him look tired. "Happy birthday."

"Morning, Kingsley," Harry replied exuberantly. He grinned. "Thanks. Sit down, have a piece of cake or anything else you want."

"Well, I've had breakfast already. I've been on my feet for some time." He sat down by Harry's side and examined the various dishes. "It looks delicious, though."

Harry wiped his sticky hands stealthily on the tablecloth. "Please, help yourself, or I'll have to eat it all myself. Kreacher thinks I'm not eating enough."

Kingsley took the fork from the plate in front of him and got a sample of everything in his reach. " One can hardly refuse that. But I must admit, Harry, that I think you give us all cause for concern. Not only do you look very distressed," his dark eyes scrutinized Harry sternly for a moment, "Molly has been worrying a lot about you since you stopped showing yourself in the Burrow. Also Hermione and Ron -"

" They are back from Australia?", Harry asked and his stomach did a little hop. When Kingsley nodded, he pushed the plate back a little. He had lost his appetite. If they were so worried about him, why didn't they come and visit him, as friends should?

"It's been a week," Kingsley specified, after swallowing his sausages. "They asked me the very first day if I could come and see you. But unfortunately, Harry, I didn't make it. All hell's breaking loose at the Ministry these days."

"Why don't they look after me themselves?" Harry asked gloomily. He leaned his chin on his hand and stared into the flames of the candles that were still burning despite the bright sunshine.

Kingsley raised his shoulders uneasily. "You mustn't blame them. After all they told me, you simply disappeared when they left. They think you're angry."

"Well, I am now," Harry said defiantly. "I mean, even if I was angry, they could have talked to me." Kingsley set about replying and Harry quickly added, "Instead of me."

Although he would have preferred to bite off his tongue rather than complain to his friends about his suffering after they themselves had had enough, he felt left out. At least they could have sent him a letter. At least that. After all, he had not disappeared because he grieved them, but to get rid of the apparitions.

"Listen, Harry," said Kingsley after a pause in the conversation, during which Harry was pondering his thoughts, and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "You have experienced so much together. You could turn a blind eye and give them something to look forward to. Ron and Ginevra in particular have lost a brother. They just don't know what to do."

"I'm not angry with Ron and Ginny. But honestly, when I was still in the Burrow, nobody cared about me. How hypocritical of them to bring it up now."

Kingsley was silent. Through the violent throb of his pulse in his ears, Harry heard Kreacher in the entrance hall speak softly to his former mistress with his rasping voice. A log in the oven cracked. Harry saw Hermione before him, as she had stood before him in the Burrow a month ago and looked at him pitifully. In truth he was glad that she was not here now. His relief at the simple explanation of his torments seemed to have been discharged and he was suddenly so angry that he was sure he would say something unforgivable.

He knew it was only natural that she cared more about Ron than she did about him. And she was definitely not doing well with it. But today he also realized that he had been alone in that house with Kreacher for a month and that Kingsley had been the first person to come to see him. A visit that had apparently hung in the air for an entire week. Hermione's worries about him couldn't have been that terrible.

"You said there was a lot going on at the Ministry?" Harry asked, trying to break the uncomfortable silence. Kingsley flinched as if Harry had interrupted him in the middle of something important.

"Oh. Yeah. The unexplained deaths are keeping us busy. Their number has now risen to sixty-one and the citizens are becoming increasingly concerned. Every day we receive new inquiries about the circumstances of the deaths, as if the ministry had not made it clear that no comments would be made. Fortunately, this has now come to an end".

"Has something happened?" Harry asked. The deaths had been a constant cause for concern for some time, but without further information, Harry had not been able to do much about them.

"Yes, we have made a breakthrough. The people who died were infected with a virus that could finally be classified. I guess you don't read the Daily Prophet anymore." Kingsley stroked his chin nervously.

Harry shook his head. "Not today."

"In any case, we have launched a vaccine through St Mungo's that should quickly solve the problem."

With a strange feeling in his stomach, Harry watched as Kingsley almost knocked over the cup beside him and rubbed it across his forehead. It seemed strange to him that an unknown virus should be responsible for so many deaths without anyone noticing. Without anyone feeling sick. "What kind of virus is this?" Harry asked lurking.

"Oh, it's ministry internals, I'm sure you couldn't do much with it. But I can tell you one thing: since I was vaccinated this morning, I feel much safer. Even if it tasted horrible." He laughed out loud. It looked fake to Harry. "You have to promise me you'll go vaccinating too. In the Daily Prophet, we called on the entire population to do so."

"Sure, I'll go there after dinner," Harry said casually, noting that Kingsley quickly put his nervousness aside and smiled at him confidently. Harry's distrust increased.

Slowly, Kingsley placed the napkin on the empty plate and stood up. "It tasted very good, thank you very much. Unfortunately I have to leave again. The life of a minister never stands still!"

Harry also stood up. He noticed that his stand was firmer after he had eaten and drunk properly. With the certain feeling that Kingsley had concealed most of what had happened, he accompanied him into the entrance hall to the door. His eyes fell on Kreacher, who held the curtain in front of the portrait open a small gap with his narrow hands and spoke in a subdued manner. Kingsley also paused and looked at the scene before him.

"I am surprised that you did not have it taken down. There are many spells that can release a sticky curse - even if it was strengthened by prohibited techniques," he murmured and took a step towards the door.

Harry followed him. "And plunge Kreacher into a crisis with this? What for? No one came to visit for the whole month, so the burden is limited," Harry replied emphatically frivolously.

"I will tell Hermione - and Ron, too - that you are expecting their visit. I'm sure she will..."

"Don't do it," Harry interrupted him. "I got it. But tell me, if a virus is responsible for all these deaths, why did it take the Ministry so long to find it? And if it was untraceable, surely the Aurors Department must have assumed that it was attacks that killed those people." Harry watched Kingsley flinch. "After everything that's happened over the past year, don't you think I could've been of some help?"

Kingsley turned suddenly. His eyes narrowed and he stared at Harry. "You seem to think that experienced Aurors who can't determine a cause of death could do something with your help? You haven't even begun your training. No, I don't apologize for not involving a future trainee in a case of this magnitude!" His voice swelled towards the end and Harry couldn't help but flinch. This seemed to soothe Kingsley. "Sorry, I'm just overworked."

"No problem, really," Harry said softly. It had not escaped his notice that Kingsley had only responded to the second part of his questions. He gritted his teeth.

"It's really - I'm sorry. Of course, I'll be very happy when you start your training next month. I'm sure you'll be an asset to the Ministry." He smiled encouragingly at Harry and took a step back.

When he opened the door, he looked at Harry one more time and said something that went through his body like lightning. Something that would occupy him for the next few days and which unerringly brought his fear back to life.

"Harry, one more thing. I beg you to keep your windows closed. Do not invite anyone you do not know into the house. And above all, avoid new contacts until the newspaper gives the all-clear. This is very important."

He went outside and quietly closed the door behind him. Harry's legs felt as if they were frozen to the ground, and suddenly the explanations of the phenomena he had told himself seemed to pour out of him, taking the confidence with them.

_Keep your windows closed._


	3. Chapter 3

Like rifle shots, the muffled drumbeats echoed through the night, shattering Harry's renewed nightmare as he slowly awoke. For a brief moment he tried to orientate himself. One second he was kneeling on the glowing floor, ready to face the horror of his sleep, and the next he found himself in sweaty, rumpled sheets, shivering in the cold that was streaming unhindered through the open window. Another blow thundered through the house, answering the silent question echoing through his skull. He swallowed against the metallic taste in his mouth.

He reached for his glasses, grateful that the dream ended before his recurring death, and sat up. A yawn shook his emaciated body and he slung his arms to his chest before he stood up and plunged into the darkness of the hall. He stopped briefly at the banister and peered down, glimpsing the muffled, flickering light of a candle.

"Kreacher," cried Harry softly into the shadows of the staircase. Worried, he registered that Mrs. Black's portrait remained silent, and for some reason this fact rubbed his nerves in a more insistent way than the nightly knocking could.

"Master Harry, shall Kreacher open the door?" he whispered up to him from below.

Harry shook his head, although Kreacher could not see it. "Hold on, I'm coming down."

He pulled his wand from the breast pocket of his pajamas and whispered, "Lumos." The ray of light divided the darkness in front of him and dust particles swirled around in his glow like snowflakes. In such moments the house seemed far too big, too eerie, for Kreacher and him alone.

Another blow against the door made him wince. Worried, Harry took two steps at a time and slipped across the floor in his haste as he approached the door. Standing in the lobby, Kreacher, clad only in a grubby blanket that he had slung over his shoulders, blinked into the bright light streaming from Harry's wand. "Kreacher should really open the door," he grumbled. "Otherwise everyone will soon know where Master Harry lives."

"But how could anyone know where I, of all people, live?"

At that moment an angry shout sounded through the door, muffled by the thick wood. "Harry, now open this damn door!" Harry moved his mouth. It sounded suspiciously like Hermione. She banged on the door, shaking in its hinges. "I know you're there!"

"And I don't want to talk to you," Harry murmured bitterly. He looked to the side and noticed Kreacher staring at him. "Listen, Kreacher, I will open the door. But in half an hour at the latest you will throw Hermione out, do you understand?"

"Very well, Master Harry." A gloomy grin ran across the pale face of the elf, and Harry, who had thought Kreacher had put aside his abhorrence of Hermione by now, rolled his eyes before he stepped to the door and opened it with a jerk.

Actually, he had imagined staring angrily at Hermione. Snorting something nasty at her. To make it clear to her how much he hated the way she acted, how disgusting it seemed to him, how worried she was and how she let herself be seen for the first time three weeks after her vacation in the middle of the night - and then again like that.

But only a short moment after the door swung open inward, a blow to his chest took his breath away. He staggered backwards so that she would not hit him again and raised the wand. "I am armed," he growled before looking up. Hermione stood before him, her face pale, rain dripping from her hair onto her forehead and pearling from her lashes onto her cheeks. Her fist had frozen in terror at chest height. Apparently she hadn't expected him to actually open the door.

"Harry, I - I'm sorry," she stammered, her brown eyes wide open. Harry's magic illuminated her unflatteringly. She looked like a ghost.

He crossed his arms in front of her chest without letting go of the wand that now lit up his sleeve, and said nothing, just stared at her sinisterly. Hermione did nothing either. Drizzle dripped on the stone stairs behind her and made them shine.

"Well, are you coming in, or should everyone know that I live here," Harry said darkly, looking at Kreacher, who nodded at him.

"Yes, of course. I did not know -" She entered and carefully closed the door behind her, blocking out the soft crackling of the rain.

Four weeks ago, when Kingsley had visited him, Harry had thought it would be better if Hermione didn't show up here. He had imagined her standing in front of him, looking at him pitifully, knowing that his anger would tear their friendship to pieces if she came near him. But now, the imagination cast into reality, his disgust, however justified he thought it was, seemed to crumble to ashes at her miserable sight. She hardly dared to look at him, instead she stared at her hands wringing the rain from her cloak.

"Why are you here?" Harry asked softly.

Hermione blinked. "I tried to give you space," she whispered, and her eyes glistened wet, and a terrible remorse drifted through Harry's stomach. Yet he continued to stare at her.

"Yeah, I had that one. For two months." Harry was annoyed at the meek sound of his words and tried to put more strength into them. "Alone. Here. It was really relaxing." Satisfied, he listened to the angry barking that made her flinch.

"Only, Harry, I could tell something was going on in you before we left. That something was bothering you. And when you were gone, I thought -" She interrupted herself and looked at him through her eyelashes with her head lowered. He was not prepared for this and he swallowed around the lump in his throat. It would be so easy to forgive her. In truth, he already felt the forgiveness, but the rebellious pride from which he had drawn strength in the last weeks did not want to give way so quickly.

He looked to the side and noticed that there was a large, empty, bright spot where Mrs. Black's portrait had hung a short while ago. Nearly fresh wallpaper preserved by an adhesion curse, which formed a sharp contrast to the yellowed pieces that had been exposed to cigar smoke and decay for years. This of course explained why the picture was silent.

Hermione had obviously followed his gaze. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw her crouching before Kreacher. "Kreacher, what happened to your mistress' portrait," she asked him friendly and smiled. He, however, crossed his arms in front of her chest and uttered an unwilling growl, but did not answer. Hermione's smile faded. She stood up and stepped close to Harry.

"You're still angry," she said, suddenly her voice sounded firm and her gaze lay steady on Harry's face. "You know I had to take care of Ron. It really took him down. He lost his brother -"

Without looking at her, Harry interrupted her. "Yes, I know. Kingsley also kindly reminded me that Fred had died. And you all seem to think I don't realize that." He gritted his teeth. "But I still see him before me. Like all the others we have lost. And I promise you, I won't forget that. How could I? Forget the ones I couldn't save?" Only when he heard him echoing in his words did he feel the grief about it in his chest and suddenly his throat also ached in all the held back tears.

"I should have known," Hermione whispered and then remained silent. She was still standing only a few inches away from him. He could smell her shampoo and the slightly sour note of the rain that lay on her curly hair like a fine web.

It seemed to him as if it would overflow at any moment and before all the dams broke he wanted to get her out of here. He had to get rid of Hermione, otherwise he would pounce on her in his own grief. To force himself on her. The urge to hurt her so badly that she would never come back here became so powerful that his jaws cramped and his fingernails bored into the paint on the wand he was still clutching.

"Kreacher," Harry said croaking to distract himself. "What have you done with the portrait of Mrs. Black? Why is it no longer hanging here in the entrance hall?" His chest hurt and he swallowed.

"Kreacher took her upstairs to Mr. Regulus' room so she wouldn't get upset." He spoke softly and sincerely and the context of his words moved Harry even more. "Mpf," he said and bit his lip.

"That's very kind of you, Kreacher." Bravely, Hermione tried to speak to him again, but he pretended not to hear her and slowly walked into the dark kitchen. A few seconds later, Harry heard the clatter of pots. "What... What's wrong with him?" she asked uncertainly. "Did you order him to...?"

"No, I did not order him to behave as if the last year had never happened." Harry swallowed again and cursed himself for having said anything at all. Maybe he should just shut up until Hermione had had enough and left.

"Harry, I'm really sorry. I should've known you'd blame yourself for so many people dying." He felt her clammy, cold hands resting on his upper arms, giving him goose bumps. His teeth began to hurt, but he did not loosen his bite, because a deep sigh came up from his chest and he would not -

"But it's not your fault. You couldn't have prevented it. In war, people die. In reality, Harry, you did the impossible and set us free." Her voice trembled and ebbed. Harry continued to stare stubbornly at the wallpaper, hoping that Hermione would just let go of him soon and her words would pass him by without sprouting in his withered chest. "I should not have neglected you like this. You're my best friend and I wasn't there for you, I should have -"

"Let it go," Harry said softly. "You're not responsible for everything either." Without looking at her, he turned around, tore loose from her grip, which was both comforting and painful, and quickly walked towards the small salon before he could change his mind. Standing in the doorframe, he lit the fireplace and wondered how homely the room seemed when it was bathed in the orange light. "Will you come at last," said Harry, stomping in without waiting for an answer. He let himself fall onto a wing chair covered in green, worn velvet and felt a wave of tiredness and despair roll over him.

When Hermione sat down on a comfortable, wide armchair opposite him, he looked at her properly for the first time. In the meantime, she had dried herself with a spell and her hair stood curled up from her head. Although her eyes lay in deep shadows, accentuated by the subdued light of the dancing flames, they looked around alert and attentive. Her pale hands clawed into the soft pillow.

"It's strange, isn't it?" she said softly. "Although I would never accuse him of anything, I'm beginning to wonder if Kingsley has told us everything about this vaccination."

Harry shook his head, slightly dizzy from her subject jump. He followed her gaze and came across the mail table he had brought from the entrance after a particularly painful confrontation with his knee, and a pile of newspapers. From his perspective, he could only read one of the headlines (Virus steals magic powers), but of course he knew them all by heart.

"When Kingsley was here, I was sure he was lying," he replied slowly, weighing his words. If he were to open up his doubts to her too bluntly, he feared they would only argue again. "There were a few moments when he acted strangely."

"Yes, I had the same feeling when he was in the Burrow," admitted Hermione and slipped restlessly around in the armchair as if she was at Hogwarts and denouncing a teacher. A slight smile fell on Harry's face when he was relieved to realize that she agreed with him. She nodded over to the newspaper. "How can they lose their powers if they're immune to the virus?"

"Because they either aren't - or there are side effects." Harry waited until Hermione had the courage to look at him. Now when their eyes met after entering neutral territory, it felt like they had never argued. As she smiled tentatively, he pointed to the stack of newspapers. "The lowest newspaper - do you have it? - there's a photo of a blonde witch." Hermione held up the issue whose front page Harry had wrinkled when he had angrily leafed through it.

Although he could only see the picture blurred through his glasses now, he remembered every detail. The woman looked tired and troubled, her skin was pale and a sickly glow lay over her stooped figure. Her hand was incessantly running through the dull hair to cling to a strand of hair, as if seeking support. 'Squib overnight' stood in thick letters above the unhappy woman.

"The day before this newspaper came out, I met this witch while vaccinating. I remember her exactly, because she was getting herself a coffee and poured it over me when she stumbled. She was in front of me and apologized one last time before I was called into the treatment room." Harry spoke softly and watched as Hermione's face reluctantly distorted.

"And you and Ron will soon begin training as aurors. I hope you won't join them in this... ... coterie. "

Harry snorted and shook his head. "When Scrimgeour asked me then - Merlin, it seems like a lifetime ago - during the summer break if I could pretend to be a supporter of the ministry in front of the press, I said to myself, I don't represent that kind of ministry. And unfortunately, even if it is our Kingsley... I don't represent his ministry either."

"Does that mean...?"

"I will not become an Auror. Not like this." This training was undoubtedly a long-cherished dream, but Harry no longer felt as if he was burying part of himself. Rather, expressing this fact felt like sweeping withered leaves off the sidewalk.

Hermione remained silent and put her chin on her palm. Her eyes watched him with a strange expression. Harry felt evaluated and averted his gaze, busying his hands pucking in a small burn hole in the armchair. "Don't blame me for this now. I didn't make my decision lightly, I can promise you that, but -"

"Now don't be silly, Harry," said Hermione resolutely, "I think you've really grown up. It is certainly not easy to turn down this offer, even if you don't like the direction the ministry is taking. I find it absolutely admirable."

"Didn't you agree that there is nothing more important than future, profession and whatnot?", Harry asked with a teasing undertone in his voice and grinned.  
"We survived a war. If we can't take the time to make good decisions now, when will we?" Surprised, Harry looked up and saw Hermione leaning back in her chair, smiling. When she noticed Harry's astonishment, she burst into a bright laugh. "No, the truth is I still think that we must not slink with our future. But I also think you owe it to yourself to find something you really want to do."

Harry bent over, leaning his elbows on his knees and letting his head hang until his hair slid forward, hiding her sight from him. He suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable and the constant outbursts of emotion that day had strained him. "I don't know if I will ever find anything. It's not as easy as it used to be to believe in a good future."

Suddenly, Hermione let herself fall on her knees before him and brushed his hair out of his face. He closed his eyes to avoid her gaze. "But from now on, I will be there for you. I want to help you." Her hand lay warm and comforting on his cheek. "Why did you leave?"

Tired, Harry looked at her and wondered what difference it would make if he just told her. Knowing her as he did, she would come up with a simple explanation for everything that had happened to him and for Kingsley's words. And advise him to talk to Professor McGonagall. She raised her eyebrows.

"Because I was completely desperate. Every night I had a terrible nightmare and when I woke up, the window was open. But I always closed it. I cast a protection spell that was never broken. But all the time I thought someone was staring at me and breathing down my neck. I couldn't sleep anymore. And it never stopped."

He had spoken softly and watched attentively as Hermione's expression changed from irritated to worried. Now she seemed insecure. "If you had said something, we could have helped you. Perhaps there is a very simple -"

Harry smiled as she behaved as he expected her to. "Wait, there's more. First I hoped it would stop when I moved. It did not. Then Kreacher told me that things had changed their place."

"Maybe some chaotic energy is following you, like a -"

"A poltergeist?" Harry said. "That's what I thought. But the best is yet to come. Kingsley warned me to keep the windows closed. But I told him nothing about the open windows. So how did he get that idea? It has nothing to do with the so-called virus."

Hermione's hand sank down his cheek as if it had just liquefied. In her eyes Harry read nameless horror.

"What is it? What's wrong?", he asked in a voice that rolled over. For a brief moment he thought she was about to tell him that she had identified something in his story as unmistakable and he was going to die. It scared him, because even if he was able to name his opponent, there was no way to protect himself from him or fight him.

Hermione put her hand over her mouth and shook her head. "I just thought it was - I'm sure it isn't. Did Kingsley tell you anything else?"

Harry pulled his eyebrows together, a clammy feeling in his chest. "Except that I'm not to invite anyone I don't know in, and in general to stay away from strangers." He moved his mouth. "Funny, why did he emphasize especially that I should not invite anyone into the house if I have to avoid all new contacts anyway?"

"Harry." Hermione clawed her hands into his arms, the grip so tight that it sucked the air sharply through his mouth. "You must come with me to the Burrow immediately, please. Or better yet, go to Hogwarts. Please."

"If you won't tell me what's wrong, why -"

"Don't you ever read?" she scolded before taking a deep breath. "Now everything makes sense," she murmured faintly and got up before she began to walk restlessly around the small salon.

Harry snorted and shook his head. "Would you please, kindly, let me in on it?"

She threw an indistinct look at him and stopped in front of him. "I believe a vampire is attacking the wizard world."

Harry stared at her. He didn't know whether to grin or offer her a fire whiskey.

"Now don't look at me like that. Vampires can only enter houses if they are invited in. Every child should know that by now." She crossed her arms in front of her chest. "However, that does apply to doorsteps. It is now known that some of them can enter through windows."

All of a sudden, Harry felt clearly how overexcited and tired he was, because a laugh seemed to be inexorably coming up from his stomach. "That doesn't sound as frightening as you think, though. In any case, this vampire at Slughorn's Christmas party seemed more like a pathetic slob. I don't think that's the kind of person who would seriously -"

"But vampire bites kill witches and wizards instead of transforming them," Hermione said quietly, and suddenly something in Harry's mind shifted to the right place and snapped, creating a new image.

"All the dead -" he croaked. Hermione nodded grimly.

"Whatever opens your window exposes you to great danger. For all I know, there is no antidote and whatever was in that vaccination -" She interrupted herself and looked unhappily at the newspaper that had slipped from the pile.

"Apparently there is a cruel side effect," said Harry, and a numb feeling tingling on his tongue. "And we all took this damn vaccine."

They looked at each other wordlessly. Suddenly, Hogwarts sounded like a great idea.


	4. Chapter 4

It was not until the Hogwarts Express took off and the track with parents and siblings before his eyes intertwined with the mists of the cool summer morning that Harry tore the cloak of invisibility from his head and took a deep breath. The compartment smelled of muff and old socks, and yet he felt relieved for the first time in a long while.

Hermione was already sitting in her seat, flicking through a book, but she looked strangely disinterested. Harry had the impression that she wasn't reading, just trying to bridge her nervousness. In fact, she reached for a strand of hair and pushed the tip into her mouth to chew on it. He grinned and let himself fall onto the seat.

"I think you could have said goodbye too, Harry," said Hermione, eyes fixed on the pages, her forehead wrinkled. "Instead of sneaking by with the cloak of invisibility. I'm beginning to think you resent Ron for not coming along." Her voice took on a reproachful tone.

Harry sighed. So much for his relief. "That would have been too much for me. Just looking at Lucius Malfoy was enough - that he was exonerated is really..." He pushed his glasses up and rubbed over his burning eyes. "All the people who know me and who I don't know. I don't think I would have had the nerve for that." He blinked until his vision cleared up.

Disapprovingly, Hermione wrinkled her nose. "Fine, I can understand that, but Molly and Ron certainly deserved a hug." Finally, she looked up from her book and stared at him with a grim expression. "Last night, when I went back to the Burrow, Ron made a scene for me because I didn't ask him to come with me. I wanted to spare him, but he doesn't understand that. He misses you."

When Harry thought about Ron, he got cold and shivered. "I don't understand that either. If you had brought him yesterday, I could have said goodbye." He frowned. "But you were actually planning to argue with me, weren't you? Knowing you as I do, you've come to accuse me." Harry thought about how she had thrown her fists against the door like a maniac. "You couldn't have used Ron for that."

"That's absolute nonsense, Harry!" Hermione moved her mouth as if she had bitten something sour, but her cheeks turned pink. "I've come to re-establish contact after you've been out of touch for ages."

"Right," said Harry with a grin, and Hermione flinched. As she looked at him, she rolled her eyes.

"Maybe you deserve a few accusations. You look terribly skinny," she said conciliatory and bent over, the open book still in her hands.

Harry leaned back and crossed his arms in front of his chest. Since last night, a certain thought had been haunting him. He had been waiting for an opportunity to speak to her, and although Hermione had signaled her need to speak, he hesitated, doubting that he could make her understand what he meant. The dynamics between them had mysteriously changed, as if they were floating in different galaxies with completely opposite principles. Yesterday, when she visited him, he noticed that they were no longer on the same wavelength.

He decided to try it in a diplomatic way. "I have hardly ever eaten either. Last night it happened again, and I just couldn't get a bite down. Anyway, I hope Hogwarts is the solution, otherwise I'll probably starve." Smiling tense, he looked at her face, and all of a sudden he knew he was going to mess it up. "Can vampires make themselves invisible?"

Hermione hesitated and blinked at him in surprise. " You don't think that...? I doubt it's a vampire who's following you, Harry! They're not exactly known for their patience. If they had, they would' killed you rather than spend three months opening your window and gloating about it!"

With growing frustration, Harry listened to her outburst. She had drawn the right conclusions from his question, of course, but she hadn't answered it. "It doesn't matter what anybody would have done. Can they do it or not?" Even he could hear how pressing, how pleading his voice sounded.

She bit her cheek and frowned at him. "I don't know for sure. In _Merger's Dark Creature Encyclopedia_ it was said that it is very rare for them to develop an ability that is contrary to the laws of magic. I suspect that includes telepathy and invisibility." Hermione watched with a dismayed expression as Harry bent over and put his head in his hands. "But these things are very unusual, Harry! So unusual, I can't even imagine a vampire having this ability."

With the feeling in his stomach of having emptied a glass of ice-cold water in one go, Harry stared into the shadows of his palms before his eyes. "But it is possible," he answered croaking.

"It's completely improbable," Hermione exclaimed. Harry didn't need to look at her to know that her cheeks had turned red and that her hands had cramped in the book cover. Although he had received the crucial information and his instincts were probably right, what he thought was confirmed. He and Hermione had long since drifted apart in their galaxies.

"And it's completely unlikely that a basilisk would wind its way through the school's pipes and petrify people," Harry said sarcastically. "And that a dark wizard could sneak into Hogwarts and throw my name into the Goblet of Fire."

"But you can't seriously take that as proof that a vampire follows you and teases you!" cried Hermione. Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "The one we speak of now has killed sixty-two witches and wizards!"

"And no one has ever seen him," Harry replied, taking his hands from his eyes. As expected, Hermione's face was reddened and she sparkled at him angrily. "So if you're so fond of cold, hard facts, why are we here? There's no proof that a single vampire killed all those people."

"Contrary to what you've made up, at least we have good reason to do so! You just want to find something again to chase after. You' re obsessed. And I won't go along with it! This school year will decide my future life," she shouted shrilly and lifted the book in front of her face.

Frustrated, Harry moaned and threw himself backwards in his seat. He knew he was right, he could feel that he was not just imagining it.

An obsession. Harry snorted and crossed his arms in front of his chest again. It occurred to him that he had to look like a small, defiant child, but this posture felt right at that moment. Because Harry was sure that it was more of an obsession to react to each of his ideas as if he was going crazy. Hermione in particular had made this discipline a long-standing tradition.

The rest of the trip she kept an insulted silence, even as Ginny pushed open the compartment door and dropped onto the seat next to Harry. Behind her, Luna staggered into the room with a dreamy expression on her face, accentuated by a hat made of a round root structure. She smiled indefinitely and closed the door.

"Hello," said Luna and sat down next to Hermione. "I'm glad that you two are repeating the school year. It will cheer many people up." She paused and then began scratching around under her root hat.

Ginny smiled at him furtively. "Hello there."

Harry waved a grin into the circle. "Hi. What... uh... is that a hat on your head, Luna?"

"Oh, that," said Luna and smiled pitifully at Harry. "It's not a hat, it's a root." She fished a rolled newspaper out of the wide sleeve of her cape, opened it and began to read.

Ginny laughed and Harry looked at her properly for the first time in three months. She seemed happier than the day he had sneaked out of the Burrow to protect her from the spook. Her skin had regained a healthy color and her eyes glowed in an unclouded sky blue. A painful sting went into his chest when her gaze hit him and he was not sure what it meant. His bowels seemed to have knotted.

"Anyway, I'm glad to finally be done with these wretched duties," said Ginny cheerfully, stroking a long, red hair strand from her face. It was only now, when she had pointed out her duties, that Harry noticed the shiny Head Girl badge on her chest: "I could swear there are more idiots every year and they have to pick the least stupid one of them for the prefect post."

"Congratulations, Ginny," Harry said, smiling at her in the hope that an ordinary conversation would resolve the uneasy feeling that had gripped him. "I didn't know you had become Head Girl. Perhaps you can give me special permission to leave school for a day. I don't have any books or anything."

"I'm sorry, that's beyond my authority," Ginny replied emphatically blasé, throwing her head back to look down at him from above. But then her charade collapsed as she burst into loud laughter. "Anyway, I'm wondering why you're so spontaneously hanging on for another year. Didn't you, like Ron, get a special offer from Kingsley?"

"We all got that, yeah. But -" Harry interrupted himself. For a brief moment he was overwhelmed by the desire to confide in Ginny with her unhysterical, pragmatic manner. He looked at her, and in her open gaze he found what he had painfully missed since the war. The belief that the world had good things in store for you. He averted his gaze. "But in the end, Hermione was able to persuade me that it would be a bad start for an auror to skip a school year completely." The lie washed a bitter taste into his mouth.

Hermione snorted disapprovingly, but did not look up from her book. Ginny looked at her with raised eyebrows, shook her head uncomprehendingly and seemed to want to say something, but then turned back to Harry.

"Fancy a game of exploding snap?"

In amusing company, in which Luna later also took part, they left England and drove deeper and deeper into the twilight. Although he laughed, Harry felt like a swindler. Like someone who had crept into this society of confident people in order to bathe in its splendor and joy.

* * *

When the train stopped and the students streamed out into the night in a dense crowd, Harry took a brief moment to close his eyes and breathe the cool air.

He had feared that Ginny would be terribly angry with him for disappearing, and the discomfort had eaten away at him from within. Even now it was still hard on him like a stone in his stomach, although he was treated extremely kindly. It was different, between them, between him and Hermione - even the defiant, illuminated towers of Hogwarts, which he could see in the distance, seemed to have changed. They seemed less inviting and more threatening. As if he was irretrievably losing something important when he surrendered to the crushing weight of the stone walls.

He snorted and shook his head. This had been a refuge for him. Probably he was just too tired to feel well.

Ginny hopped light-footedly beside him onto the platform. Her hand lay gently on his upper arm. "Are you coming? It's lousy cold here." Without waiting for an answer, she pulled him into the crowd, and Harry, feeling kind of muddy in his head and legs, let himself be led along the platform to the white carriages, in front of which a herd of thestrals were harnessed, two in front of each carriage. Bored, the animals snorted into the crowd.

Harry, who had actually always liked the skeletal, dark horses, averted his eyes. It was not their sight that affected him, but what they stood for. To see them was to have seen death itself, and he couldn't bear the thought at that moment with Ginny by his side. Rather, he felt as if he was overflowing with despair.

"Where have Hermione and Luna gone?", Ginny asked next to him, and he felt her move restlessly. "I just want to go to the warmth."

"Then we'd better go and sit in a carriage," mumbled Harry. As he walked forward, he kept his eyes on the ground in an effort to continue ignoring the thestrals.

Absent, he stopped in front of the worn wood, opened the door and reached out a hand to help Ginny inside. Her smile went unnoticed by him, and as he dropped himself onto the worn fabric of the seat, he looked out the window into the night. His pale face was reflected in the grubby window pane. The edge of the forest lay in shadows behind the path and seemed to stand out in an unreal way, as if it had been painted into the scenery.

"I think I know what's bothering you," whispered Ginny. "I can see the thestrals now, too." Harry heard her heavy sigh. He would have loved to bend over and take her in his arms now, but he was stuck to the seat and carriage wall like frozen.

The carriage shook slightly. "I think Hermione saw the thestrals," said Luna, sounding inappropriately cheerful. Harry looked up and saw her help Hermione into the carriage, her face as pale as his own.

Silently, they completed the ride. The thoughts of the ones they would never see again forced themselves into Harry's skull, and his throat began to hurt. He clenched his jaw, tried to distract himself, but it was futile.

For a moment his thoughts wandered to his classmates who had sacrificed themselves believing in a better world. He wondered whether it had been worth it. Before the final fight he had believed in it himself, but now he was not sure. What had changed?

Then a powerless look from black eyes divided his memories and he thought of Snape and felt even worse. The insights he had gained from the memory's silver liquid had been disarming in a compelling way; what Snape had gone through, for his sake (for the most part), lay like a black shadow on Harry's soul. Now Snape would never again storm through the castle like a nightmare, looking for someone to relieve the burden. Harry wondered why it was this thought that caused a sickness in him, raw, sad and heavy like a dead leg. Their lives had undoubtedly been intertwined, more so than he had ever known. He would never be able to pay off this debt, and that he had sent the memory to the Ministry to acquit Snape posthumously was not even remotely enough.

As the carriage drew them closer, the castle seemed increasingly hostile and bleak. The façade shone in the drizzle as if it was bleeding, and in Harry's imagination it was life itself seeping from the joints of the walls. He averted his gaze.

* * *

As the students, some of them shivering in the unusual cold, streamed into the Great Hall, Harry stopped and stared through the double doors into the interior. He could see the candles hovering above the house tables, making the cutlery sparkle. His gaze fell on the cutout of the teacher's table, which he could see from here, and on Snape's empty seat next to the one where Dumbledore used to sit and wink at him across his chalice. He could not go any further.

"Don't say you're not going in now, Harry," Ginny asked, putting her hands under her armpits, hopping from one leg to the other.

"I'm not going in," he replied in a scratchy voice. Ginny moaned. "Will you give me the password? I want to go to bed."

For the first time that evening, Hermione turned to him. Her eyebrows had furrowed, a sight he knew well. "You must attend the dinner! You can't avoid everything, Harry!"

He stared at her and tried to swallow the lump in his throat.

"Oh, come on, Hermione," said Ginny annoyed. "We're all tired, sad and exhausted. I'll tell him the password and we'll go to dinner." Hermione put her arms on her hips and now looked furiously at Ginny, who in turn puffed up her reddened cheeks. Harry was the only one who noticed that Luna waved at them and disappeared into the Great Hall.

"You really shouldn't support him in this behavior," hissed Hermione. "That's what he's been doing all summer, and it's time he pulled himself together, otherwise he wouldn't do anything anymore. You complained that Harry ran away and now he's doing it again."

Harry winced. "Would you please stop talking about me as if I wasn't here," he sputtered and clenched his hands into fists. The rage rushed through his ears, but there was something else that tightened his throat. "I can't do this right now, no matter who you screw up. Just go yourself if it's so important to you."

"Griffin feather," Ginny snorted in between. She had her arms crossed in front of her chest and gave Hermione a sinister look before she stomped away angrily. Harry stared after her.

"I can't seem to stop you from crawling away," grumbled Hermione. "But consider that it might help people to see you. Many of them have lost loved ones, friends -"

"Why do you think I can't go in there?" Harry asked. His anger dissolved as suddenly as it had come, leaving behind a heavy sadness that pressed on his eyes from within and obscured his vision. "I can't sit in there staring at Snape's empty space and -"

Hermione opened her eyes and turned around, peering into the Great Hall. "He's not there, yes." She turned back to Harry, the look she gave him was filled with pity. "No one told you that he was saved? Professor McGonagall herself pulled him out of the Shrieking Shack and gave first aid. But actually I thought you knew. You sent his memory to the Ministry."

"I thought I owed it to him to do at least that," Harry said numbly. "He's really alive? I thought -"

She smiled and bent over to wipe away the tears on his cheek with cold hands. "He was in the Burrow after they had acquitted him. Although he could hardly walk, he raged around. I think Molly just managed to keep him from storming your house and killing you."

Harry laughed gurgling, but he still felt completely dissolved. "I still can't go in there."

"All right," said Hermione, turning away. "Good night."

"Night," said Harry and took the stairs up that would carry him away from the hubbub.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning Harry did not hesitate to enter the big hall. He had to hurry to get some breakfast, because he had overslept. Tousled and cheerful, he hurried down the row of tables and sat down next to Hermione, who had leaned a book against her chalice and read in it.

"Morning," said Harry with a grin.

Hermione looked up and glazed at him skeptically. "Morning, Harry. You're in a good mood."

He reached for some toast and put a handful of scrambled eggs on top. "I slept through the night. No dreams and no windows today." In fact, he felt like a new man. "This really helps to recover."

"Listen, Harry, I'm sorry about yesterday." Hermione's hand was clutching a spoon and her expression seemed genuinely contrite. "I was worried about you after what happened to you over the summer. I really thought you'd gone into hiding."

"No way," Harry said vaguely. He chewed the toast and swallowed it. "You're almost acting as if I were half-dead."

"That's the way you've been acting. After all, you missed the selection."

Harry rolled his eyes. "A second ago you were apologizing, and now you're harping on about it again." He took a sip of pumpkin juice and let his eyes wander over the house tables and the students who ate their breakfast and chatted merrily as if the battle against Voldemort had left nothing but stories in them.

"I was just explaining it to you," said Hermione. Her tone sounded snuffy. "Anyway, I'm glad you're better and that you were able to sleep. Maybe that way you can concentrate on your lessons."

"If that's possible," Harry replied. "I haven't bought anything. Before we left last year, I cleared out all the school materials and could find almost nothing left."

"That doesn't matter. I can give you some pens, ink and parchment. And you can just look at my books until you have your own," Hermione said cheerfully and smiled at him.

"Sure, thanks."

His gaze remained fixed on the Slytherins, who talked and joked with each other like everyone else. Only one of them didn't take part in the conversation and sat a bit away. Draco Malfoy looked bad. Tired and blinking he poked around in his breakfast, his head resting on one hand. The blond hair was longer than before. Dull it fell into his eyes.

"What is Malfoy doing here?" Harry asked. "He was at school last year." Then he remembered that he had seen his father, Lucius Malfoy, on the platform.

"As far as I know, he failed his exams and the Ministry made it a condition that he finishes his education ... so he could become a profitable part of society." Hermione snorted as if she didn't believe in it. "The Ministry is happy to give second chances at the moment. And if you think about it," she nodded her chin in Malfoy's direction, "he has been more of a help than a danger."

"I didn't question that. I just wondered, because I thought they'd been acquitted." He kept looking at Malfoy. A stooped figure with no hope left in sight. _We have something in common_ , Harry thought fiercely.

"Oh, Harry. You've just been skimming the papers, haven't you? They reported on it. Everybody who was pardoned was given conditions for betterment. They had to donate half their assets to charity and also be socially engaged." Hermione shook her head. "I'm not sure that's such a good thing. Imagine if they let Mr. Malfoy work in a soup kitchen."

Harry smiled. "If they do, I'm sure they'll monitor him there as well. No one could be that stupid."

"Hey, Harry! Good to see you again," said a dark voice in Harry's back. Before he could turn around, Dean Thomas squeezed himself onto the bench next to him. He beamed at him and made a strange movement as if he wanted to shake his hand and had changed his mind halfway through. Finally, he pulled Harry into a firm embrace.

"I am really glad that you came back. So I'm not alone in the dorm with all those brats." He laughed and let go of Harry, who embarrassedly adjusted his glasses. "How are you? I had a great vacation. There were a damn lot of parties. Hi, Hermione!"

Hermione slammed the book, in which she probably wouldn't read that morning, with a disgruntled pull around her mouth. But when she turned to Dean, she smiled friendly. She inquired about his half-brothers and sisters and Harry stopped listening to them. Once again he looked over to Malfoy and raised his eyebrows, for he found himself appraised by his grey eyes. Malfoy flinched and then looked back at his plate.

Harry had the feeling that Malfoy would no longer attack him and that this school year would be much quieter than he was used to. If he did stare at him - what could he do? Gloating with satisfaction, he turned back to his breakfast.

A few moments later, the steel-gray sky of the Great Hall was filled with owls that threw parcels and letters down on the tables, and Harry could just lean back when a rolled up Daily Prophet landed on his plate and knocked over the chalice. He fished the dripping roll out of his breakfast and wiped egg from the newspaper before he disinterestedly coiled it up.

Then he read the front page and the certainty of a quieter school year faded. 'Witch Arrested - Madness or the work of a dark creature?', was the title of the Prophet's article, and beneath it was a photograph that ran through his body like a quake. It was the unhappy woman who had poured coffee over his legs and lost her strength the day after. Her hair was dull, her face wet with tears, her eyes red rimmed as if she had been crying for a very long time. She did not fight against the hands that held her upper arms, and surrendered to be dragged forward.

'That morning, a witch was arrested in Mould-on-the-Wold after spending half the night on the roof of the Morton family. The suspect is Norma Gladstone, 28, a previously inconspicuous witch who passed her education at Hogwarts ten years ago. Although she was unknown to the family, even after her arrest she still complains about the death of the grandmother Morton.

"I certainly do not intend to kick the bucket yet," the grandmother tells us indignantly.

"She not only cried. She _screamed_ , so loudly that each of us woke up and could not fall asleep again. Of course we called the Ministry right away, but you know how it is. Of course, there is no capacity to protect ordinary citizens, there is nothing we can do about it," says Felicia, a young mother who has a baby in her arms that is smiling like a little sunshine all the time.

Dear readers, of course we wonder what happened to this woman and why she was sitting on this roof. There are many theories about how banshees come into being, but never before has the magical world experienced that they develop from normal witches. Read our special about banshees on page 18!

We wish the Morton family heartfelt condolences.'

"This is nonsense," said Hermione, who had bent over next to Harry to read the article as well. "Banshees do not originate from witches. Besides - oh, that's really disgusting - they act as if the grandmother had already died."

"This is the woman who lost her magical powers after the vaccination. Remember her? I showed you the article," Harry said tonelessly. A thought that he could not grasp lay restlessly in his skull. He couldn't get rid of the feeling that it was all connected and that he only had to ask himself the right questions to come up with it.

Thoughtfully, he watched as Professor McGonagall limped through the line and handed out the schedules to the students. She looked cheerful, less worn out since he had last seen her. The vacations seemed to have done her good. "Mr. Potter," she said as she arrived next to him. "I have taken the liberty of enrolling you again in a certain selection of NEWT classes that you may need for your career aspirations. I am glad that you have decided to continue your education."

She put a timetable in front of him onto the newspaper. He just took a quick look at it and saw with satisfaction that he would have about as many spare hours as classes, and then smiled at his teacher. He did not have the heart to tell her that he no longer had the desire to become an auror. "Thank you," he said instead.

"We'd better get going, Harry," said Hermione and stuffed the book in her pocket. "We both have a double lesson of Defense Against the Dark Arts and we'd better not be late."

Dean moaned. "Not just today," he said grimly. "Tomorrow as well. It can ruin your whole day."

Harry's hand clawed into his schedule. He realized that he was apparently the only one who hadn't known about Snape's survival. With a noose in his chest, he wondered how much more he had missed.

* * *

Although they rushed into the classroom several minutes early, most of the students were already sitting at the tables in front of open books. They looked up attentively as Harry hurried through the door, but most turned away. Apparently they had been expecting Professor Snape. Only a handful of people continued to look at him. Uneasily, Harry scratched his cheek and sat down in an empty seat in the middle of the room, next to Hermione, who was digging in her school bag.

He noticed a quick movement beside him and discovered Malfoy, who was apparently trying to make himself smaller in his chair. A hopeless endeavor - Malfoy was taller than Ron and pushed his knees from below against the table, which scraped across the floor with a loud crunch. His cheeks reddened, he glanced over to Harry beneath the long, blond hair. A few students from Slytherin laughed.

Harry grinned. He had not seen Malfoy sitting next to him. Normally he would have found another seat, but the strange behavior of his former rival compensated him for this seating arrangement. Malfoy averted his gaze and clawed his long fingers into the tabletop. He looked as if he would jump up at any moment and storm out of the room - or vomit into the trash. Under other circumstances, Harry might even have felt sorry for him - after what had happened last year.

With restraint, Hermione pushed her book against his elbow. She bent over and murmured, "I don't think you have anything to fear about Malfoy. You can stop laughing at him now." When Harry opened his mouth to reflexively protest, she interrupted him. "It looks as if he's going to be completely alone this year, and it would be more humane to leave him be." She looked at him sternly and raised an eyebrow.

Harry looked over at Malfoy once more. He had crossed his arms on the table and laid his red-stained head on it. "You know he would never have left me alone?"

Hermione pursed her lips and changed the subject. "I wonder where Professor Snape is? He's never been late before." She glanced at her watch and shook her head, her hair whipping wildly on all sides. "I hope his condition hasn't worsened."

"Is that possible?", Harry asked with a worried grumble in his stomach, which he whitewashed over with a snort. "I mean, he's running around and wants to attack the Grimmauld Place. I thought he was out of the woods."

"I never thought you'd be seriously worried about him." She leans over to him suspiciously.

"I'm not worried about -"

"You can close your books," said a dark voice and Harry flinched. There stood Snape, the person he had indeed been most concerned about. He had leaned heavily on his table and looked devastated, but Harry couldn't have said what made that impression on him. Dark circles under his eyes, his face pale, his hair greasy, he looked the same as before. _Maybe_ he _is the vampire who is chasing me_ , Harry thought and smiled sadly.

"The following hours will be devoted to a subject about which the Ministry is keeping silent. The books you need would probably only be available illegally." The now longer black hair fell into his face.

Hesitantly, Hermione pulled the book back to herself and slammed it shut. Her hands trembled, probably with excitement at learning something truly new. Harry suppressed a moan.

"But perhaps," Snape said softly, "one of you may already know details you shouldn't." He pulled his mouth to a mean smile. "You've probably all wondered about the reporting during the holidays. But none of the dimwitted fools that you are will have made the right connections. The Ministry has an information policy based on keeping you all in a state of ignorant dimness, preventing you from making your own decisions. Which of you has had the shot?"

Harry looked around. Almost the entire class had raised their hands, only Draco Malfoy and a girl from Slytherin didn't. Hurriedly, Hermione pushed him in the side and Harry raised his arm.

"Well, well. Only two of you had the foresight not to believe everything the Prophet writes. A pathetic outcome." Snape gritted his teeth and walked slowly around the teacher's desk. "Miss Caldwell, would you mind telling us why you didn't answer the Ministry's call?" He stopped and leaned against the front of his desk.

The girl who hadn't raised her hand stood up. She stroked her copper hair behind her ear and smiled at Snape. Harry blinked. She was amazingly pretty. Snape twisted his mouth as if he had bitten something sour. "Sir, my parents believe that there is no virus that only kills witches and wizards. They -"

Snape snorted. "At least your parents have what you might call common sense. Sit!"

Caldwell let herself fall on her chair. Her red lips were open and she blinked at Snape as if he had beaten her. Harry also pulled his eyebrows together and watched him more closely. It was rare for him to iron a Slytherin down in front of the entire class. One by one, Snape gave them a scornful look, but Harry was under the impression that he was leaving him out.

"There is no virus."

"Sir, but then what is this vaccine?", asked a boy with light brown, rasp-short hair, apparently a Gryffindor. Harry had never noticed him before. "I mean, if it's not a virus, then what did they make us gulp down?"

Snape glared venomously at him and wrinkled his big nose. "Did I ask you a question, Spence?" he said in a quiet and dangerous tone. Spence shook his head. He looked as if he would burst into tears at any moment, but Harry was almost disappointed in Snape. He had seen him in class back then dealing with the Gryffindors of his year, and now, on closer inspection, he seemed strangely toothless, like an old, tired tiger, resigned in his cage.

"The vaccine contained a large amount of different non-magical ingredients similar to those found in perfectly ordinary medicinal plants," Snape barked, answering Spence's question without deducting points. "Muggle medicine," he added. Nearly all the Slytherins shook themselves as if he had uttered a terrible insult.

"In fact, there is one thing that can do far more damage to witches and wizards than to non-magical life forms. Do any of you have any idea what that might be?" Snape's eyes wandered disinterestedly through the class. He was just about to continue talking when Malfoy stood up.

"The bite of a vampire," he said softly, then lowered his eyes until his hair fell into his face. Without having been asked to do so, he sat down again. Harry noticed how quiet it had become in class, as if everyone had spontaneously decided to stop breathing.

"Exactly. The bite of a vampire - or rather the venom that is transferred during a bite - is capable of killing witches and wizards in the smallest of doses while transforming Muggles. Why is that, Mr. Malfoy?"

Malfoy shook his head. "I'm not sure, sir."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Because the venom is superior to magic in all forms. If a vampire drinks from a Muggle and leaves him enough blood to live on, the venom infects all the cells through the blood until nothing living remains. The Muggle dies from the poisoning and will soon resurrect as if nothing had happened." He interrupted himself. It lasted only a second, but Harry, who had been watching him, saw it anyway. Snape seemed to falter for a brief moment, as if he was dizzy.

"In witches and wizards, however, the venom in the blood meets something that is classified as a magic particle. So instead of infecting the cells, it decomposes the magic particles. The blood coagulates, the venom is no longer pumped through circulation and the magical creature dies without enjoying an eternal, bloodthirsty, undead life." Snape sardonically smiled. "Why don't you write this down?"

A general restlessness broke out among the students as they rummaged through their pockets and dug out their writing materials. Hermione pushed pen and parchment across the table, and Harry began to scribble patterns and bows, while in between he gave Snape a worried look.

The bell rang at the end of the lesson and Snape stood up in front of the class. "As homework, I expect an essay. Two rolls of parchment by Wednesday morning."

A collective groan went through the classroom. Snape stormed out and Harry felt as if he were staggering.

* * *

"Harry, what's wrong with you? We must hurry, Charms is about to begin," cried Hermione.

Harry, who had pressed his forehead against the cool window pane in the corridor in front of the classroom, opened his eyes and looked at her. She had reached out her hand to him and pulled her eyebrows together. Dull he shook his head.

"Snape didn't even look at me," he said soundlessly.

"Yes, but by not sticking on you, we had a really good lesson! Did you not hear what he said?"

"He could have at least snarled at me," Harry continued, not paying attention to Hermione.

"He probably blames you for everything that happened to him. You cannot expect him not to be changed by this, Harry! It changed all of us, what -"

"But then he could have at least snapped at me," Harry interrupted her.

Suddenly, a pitiful expression crept into Hermione's face. "Oh, Harry. You - You know he will never replace Remus, even if he knew your mother, maybe even loved her." Her cheeks turned pink. She peered anxiously into the empty hallway as if she expected Snape to lie in wait for her, cursing her if she kept talking.

Harry stared at her and wondered numbly if this was what he wanted. That Snape talked to him about the memories, or even about his mother? The thought of it tore restlessly at his bowels. Hermione approached him and put her hand on his arm.

"Did you even notice that Professor Snape confirmed our suspicions? That vaccination -" Hermione said softly, but Harry did not listen.

"Later," he croaked. "I can't think about it now."

"All right, but we really should be going. We'll be late for Charms already."

* * *

Harry went up the spiral staircase to the dormitory early. He looked back at Hermione and Dean, who were working together on the essay for Defense Against the Dark Arts. Hermione scribbled like crazy on the third parchment roll and Dean drove through his hair again and again, moaning. None of them looked up and Harry shrugged before he opened the door.

The dormitory lay deserted in front of him, quiet. That was exactly what he needed.

Hurriedly he tore the cloak off his shoulders, got out of his jeans and threw himself into bed without bothering to put on his pajamas. It was a relief to draw the curtain of the canopy bed, for the dormitory had changed with its inhabitants. Seamus' stuff was no longer scattered everywhere, Neville's plants were missing, but Harry suspected that Ron's absence alone was responsible for this cold, strange atmosphere. Only Dean's soccer poster reminded of the good old days.

All day long he had tried to put Snape out of his mind with his unaccustomed impulses of merely teaching them and ignoring Harry, but he had succeeded more badly than well. Again and again he returned to the room, saw Snape wavering in his memory and the dark shadows under his eyes seemed to grow larger and more unnatural with each time Harry looked back.

It annoyed him that he was paying so much attention to it. Yet, this -

Suddenly he got a fright. He had heard it very clearly, a suppressed breathing in the silence. His heart began to pound and the pulse was beating so loudly in his ears that it drowned out the noise. As he grabbed the pillow beside him, he remembered that his wand was still in his pocket.

He remained silent for quite a while, but even as his irritation gradually subsided, he could no longer hear anything unusual. Annoyed with himself, he rolled his eyes. He was probably just completely overwrought.

At some point he fell into a restless sleep. More than once he was startled out of it, firmly convinced that he heard footsteps. But every time he pulled the curtain aside, the room lay shaded but empty in front of him. He bent down for his wand and laid it next to him on the pillow before falling asleep again.

This time, sleep carried him away from the empty room into a gloomy, old temple he would have preferred to forget.


	6. Chapter 6

It was pitch-black when Harry opened his eyes, the shape of a human figure imprinted in his field of vision. His mouth tasted of blood and decay, as if something in it had died. Confused, he blinked at the half-open curtain of his bed and at that moment, it dawned on him that he wasn't dreaming.

The creaking of a door nearby cut the nightly silence.

Without thinking, Harry grabbed the wand and jumped out of bed. He sensed that he was in danger, but despite the fear that shot cold through his veins, the curiosity about what had haunted him for months was far too great.

He tiptoed forward, past the beds of Spence and another boy whose name he didn't know, to the door leading to the small bathroom he shared with his roommates. The door was merely ajar, although it was otherwise always firmly locked. He raised the wand in front of his face, swallowed, and then ran into the nightly darkness of the windowless room.

“Lumos,” he whispered.

Like a flashlight, Harry waved the wand, from which a strong beam of light shone, and illuminated two sinks that gleamed cleanly, a potted plant that cast a restless shadow on the wall, and the toilet cubicles that seemed just as untouched and clean.

Before he allowed disappointment to take hold, he slowly walked towards the cabins and pushed the doors open one after the other with verve. While the first two banged with the handles against the cabin walls, the last one could not be opened properly. Harry took a sharp breath and was about to squeeze through the gap when someone pushed himself out.

He took a few steps back and held his breath. The beam of light crawled over shapeless looking leather boots with silver buttons on the side, pale, thin legs covered from the knees on by frayed trousers. Then Harry quickly swung it up and focused on the face of a boy who smiled nervously and wiped the palms of his hands on the greasy shirt.

In Harry's eyes, the boy looked pretty in a pitiful way as he stood in his rags in front of him, looking at him from top to bottom with his head bowed, and suddenly he became uncomfortably aware that he was wearing a shirt that, despite its length, just reached to his thighs. The boy smiled. The brown curls framed his face like a brittle, grubby rag and merged into oddly cut laces near his chin. His eyes were of such a bright blue as Harry had never seen before.

He opened his full lips. “Too bad you followed me,” he said deeply and scratchy. Harry frowned. The boy looked as if he was not a day older than sixteen, but his voice sounded like that of an old man.

“Who are you?” Harry asked in a hurried tone of voice. Though the night was cool, his skin seemed heated. He did not impress the boy, and Harry flinched as he took a step forward.

“You shouldn't have seen me,” he said and took another step closer. He raised a thin arm and frowned. “To become visible now of all times, that can really only happen to me.” Cold fingertips lay down on Harry's cheek.

Irritated by the boy's unexpectedly intimate touch, Harry took another step rearwards and felt the wall in his back, the sink by his side. He had been careless and had let himself be trapped.

“Who are you?”, he asked again, laboriously suppressing the trembling in his voice.

“It is of no use to you to know my name. You couldn't even associate it.” A bitter draft appeared around the boy's mouth and his eyebrows tightened. “You magicians are glad you know nothing of these things. Little, stupid lambs,” he spat out.

He came closer. Harry's stomach took a little bounce. He glanced at the sink. Much too deep to crawl under and then run away. He directed the wand slightly upwards as if of its own accord. Harry tried to concentrate, and an unspoken stupefy bored its way out of the tip, but something went wrong.

As if in slow motion, Harry watched as the red lightning struck the boy's chest and the flickering was reflected in his surprised wide-open eyes, but instead of penetrating the flesh, it seemed to slip off and hit Harry's face instead.

Suddenly it became dark and quiet, almost peaceful, except for an ugly crackling noise that sounded in the distance. It was so unwelcome and strange amidst his peace that it could not concern him. His consciousness drove away from that sound.

He didn't know how long he stayed like this, but at some point, the surrounding atmosphere changed. It seemed to him as if he was nothing but a small candle flame in the middle of a swelling storm, protected by thick, numb walls, comfortably almost. And then he suddenly burned.

The burning carried him back into his body and flames licked through his flesh as if it were the thinnest paper. His almost blind eyes perceived a shadow that was bent over him, and the raging storm turned into shreds of sentences that penetrated his rushing ears.

'- sorry you were so stupid — Why are you running -'

The flames blazed mercilessly through his body. Maybe he was lying somewhere on the floor or in a bed or somewhere else, he couldn't see anything. His field of vision frayed out more and more and formerly bright spots were soon crisscrossed by the approaching darkness. His mouth opened, but he felt his throat burning and no sound came out.

'- if you scream, I'll kill all your friends -'

Again, it became black around him and the world sank into silence.

* * *

It was so bright that Harry did not dare to open his eyes at first. With a cramped jaw, he listened to the noise that surrounded him: footsteps hammering on the stone floor, laughter magically amplified through his auditory canal, a fluttering, a sniffing, unknown to him. The banging of a door, so loud that he flinched. Then the memory of the strange dream came back.

Although he let the dream go through his mind again and again and was sure that he had been lying here for more than five minutes, his eyes ached in the brightness that penetrated through his closed eyelids and illuminated a ramified network of dark veins. He fumbled for his wand he had left on the pillow last night but found nothing. It was not under the pillow either.

The muscles in his arm ached and burned. The burning - suddenly he remembered how flames had consumed his body in the dream. He opened his eyes, hissed with pain and closed them again immediately. Far too bright.

With his lids squeezed together he sat up and rubbed his face. The fingertips stroked over something dried, crusty on his cheek. Fluttering, slowly, he opened his eyes, only a small gap. He saw nothing but light, as if he were sitting in the middle of a supernova.

The noise that was roaring through his head slowly ebbed away and after a while the light faded.

Harry frowned and got out of bed, looked at the dormitory that lay silently before him, and hesitated. A prolonged snoring came from the direction of Spence's bed. Everyone was still asleep. Then where had the noise come from? He turned around and looked out the window. It was dawning and the sun had not even fully risen above the treetops of the Forbidden Forest. Such a faint light could hardly have blinded him. When he shook his head, it cracked loud and clear. Harry twitched.

Although he could still hear voices, footsteps and the snoring of his housemates, something was missing. He couldn't figure out what it was, but an unpleasant feeling seeped through him. To keep himself occupied, he slowly walked towards the bathroom. He didn't expect to suddenly gain clarity, but if the dream hadn't been a dream - a jolt went through his stomach - he would find signs of it.

When he pushed the door open, the room lay deserted and dark in front of him. What had he expected? That this boy would suddenly jump out of the toilet and shout 'Boo!'? Harry snorted and went closer to the sink, next to which he had been standing in the dream, pushed against the wall, his face groped by this stranger's fingertips. Nothing could be seen. The tiles sparkled with cleanliness.

He turned the water on and was about to bend down to hold his head in the cold stream when he stopped and looked in the mirror. His reflection stared at him, pale as a ghost, and on his cheek a soft, rust-colored trace. The bad sleep of last night had settled as powdery dark edges under his eyes.

Slowly he wiped his cheek with cold water, trying to shake off the thought that the dirt was blood. When his skin was cleared of the trace, he rubbed further and further until it hurt, until his cheeks should have glowed red in their soreness. Finally, he turned off the water. His flesh shimmered pale through the darkness as if he were a dead fish. He smiled grimly and turned away, just about to go back to bed, when his foot hit something and a soft, rolling noise sounded.

He turned around and his heart sank through his legs into the ground, as he saw his wand roll towards one of the toilet cabins. Apparently, the boy had left it there when he got Harry into his bed. Harry swallowed and took a deep breath. If this really happened, then this boy, this... this child had been stalking him for three months. Suddenly the memory came back to him that he had said he was visible now of all times and Harry should not have seen him at all.

Blood on his cheek, in his mouth. He froze. In fact, every night of the past vacation, there had been a metallic, choking taste in his mouth when he woke up. Harry shook himself. Probably this boy was crazy, insane, but a vampire would certainly not feed him blood.

Again, he turned around to look at himself in the mirror once more. He was very pale, but that was probably just because of the bad night he had — and because he had looked his attacker in the face. Nevertheless, he turned his head and inspected the uninjured flesh on his neck, then lifted his shirt and examined his chest. Nowhere did he find any evidence of a bite wound. He stuck out his tongue at his reflection and then bent over for his wand.

Snape himself had said that wizards do not become vampires. Harry would get through the school day and stay up at night waiting for the boy. This time, he vowed to himself, the stunning spell would hit him.

* * *

Harry was glad when time finally crawled far enough ahead to go down for breakfast. He had taken extra time to get dressed and then sat in the common room, waiting and drumming with his fingers on his thighs, forbidding himself any thoughts about the past night.

The corridors were still unpopulated and small particles of dust were swirling around in the light streaming through the windows. Never before had he descended this early into the Great Hall. His footsteps echoed ghostly through the castle and a clammy fear grabbed his chest, so he walked faster and expelled his breath in relief as he reached the wide stairs leading to the entrance hall.

Tense, he slipped through the ajar wing doors and settled at the Gryffindor table. It was still empty, but within half an hour his housemates would have gathered here. He decided not to hurry too much and distract himself with the food. With a queasy feeling in his stomach, he reached for a piece of toast that was still hot and lay on his palm like embers.

Steps came closer and Harry raised his head. Malfoy crept through the double doors, as he himself had done a short time ago, and looked around. When he saw Harry, he seemed to shrink inside and trudge to his place on the outer edge of the Slytherin table with his head lowered. Irritated, Harry wrinkled his brow. Now that they were alone, the other boy's behavior bothered him.

With lips pressed together, Harry spread some butter on the bread and watched Malfoy as he bit and chewed. There he sat, stirring on his plate and pretending that Harry didn't exist. His stomach started to lift. He thought about how he would approach Malfoy and provoke him and how he would thunder a fist into that sorrowfully twisted face. Suddenly, without warning, a wave of ruthless nausea broke over him, and he spat out the bite of toast, panting and coughing, clawing into the tabletop and bending down.

He choked dryly and tried to breathe deeply. Staring at the floor, he waited for the nausea to subside. His stomach lurched. The stirring sound of Malfoy's spoon was carried to him, and he resurfaced to tell him to be damn quiet. He opened his mouth when it suddenly rattled.

The spoon had fallen out of Malfoy's hand. He stared at Harry, a slightly bluish glint on his face, eyes wide open, arm still raised. Something went off in Harry's brain.

“WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU?” he yelled. Malfoy winced and swung one leg off the bench, but Harry was faster. He got up and ran to catch him and, if necessary, beat an answer out of his damn, ugly maw. Satisfied, he listened to the echo of his own voice that seemed to surround him as he sledded in front of the table. The ominous thought that no man could run so fast, he pushed far away. Malfoy lowered his eyes and froze in his movement. 

“What is the matter with you? Why don't you argue with me anymore?”, Harry hissed. “What are you looking at me like that for?”

As Malfoy turned to him and shook his head in a thoughtful movement, a sweetish smell waved to him. Then a sharp pain drove through Harry's jaw. He pulled his hand up and put it on his mouth, squeezing as hard as he could, but the smell penetrated under the palm of his hand and seemed to settle on his tongue, and his legs became so weak that he felt as if he would collapse in the next moment.

Harry blinked. In nightmarish precision, the last night appeared before his eyes and the image of Malfoy looking at him with an indistinct expression blurred. Cold fingers on his cheek. A crackling sound carried to him from far away. The burning all over his body, which his limbs still remembered even now.

He could barely feel his fingers stretched out until a burning heat flowed through the tips and his vision cleared up again. He drew in a sharp breath when he saw his fingertips resting on Malfoy's heated, reddened cheek like the strange boy's last night on his own, as if he had inherited his embarrassing behavior. The question whether it felt as cold to Malfoy as it did to him painfully penetrated his thoughts.

An indistinct sound, half hiccup, half sob, escaped Malfoy, who stared at him in shock. The heat that flowed through Harry's hand into his arm increased. Hastily he pulled back his hand and pressed the other one harder against his mouth.

Staggering, he took a step backwards. Malfoy did not move, only the piercing look from the gray eyes following him. Harry turned and ran as fast as he could.

* * *

In the past, Harry had loved the Room of Requirement.

It had long since become evening, and he had hardly moved after his escape during breakfast time. He convulsively tried to think of nothing else and waited for everyone to go to sleep so that he could go undisturbed into the dormitory and lie in wait for the stranger. Now, all that counted was what this conversation would produce. He could take care of the frightening rest afterwards. Now and then, however, a fear or a clammy question would shoot through his head and each time the room would answer it with a book. Meanwhile he sat among high shelves full of books. Annoyed, he drove his hand over his eyes.

He hated this room.

As the shadows of the shelves, which had settled like dirt on the carpet, grew longer, the door opened. Silently it fell into the lock and torches were lit on the walls. Their flickering glow made the shadows dance. With a damp feeling in his chest, he wondered how he could have forgotten to secure the room against intruders.

Hermione peered out from behind a large bookcase with her eyebrows drawn together and assessed Harry severely. He returned her gaze numb and after a while she stepped forward, chewing on her lower lip, which was torn in the middle. The pain shot through his jaw like an iron bar and his fingernails clawed into his chin.

“I didn't see you on the Marauder's Map and thought you were here,” she said, crouching down in front of him. “Actually, I wanted to ask you why you didn't show up for class, but...”

“But?”, Harry asked, but then gritted his teeth again as the pain intensified.

“You are sick, aren't you?”

He shook his head. Hermione sighed.

“You ought to take a look at yourself,” she said softly and put her hand on his forehead. “You're freezing cold!” Her touch burned. “Harry, you must go to the hospital wing urgently!” Again, he shook his head.

Hermione narrowed her eyes halfway. “Does your jaw hurt?” she asked with an undertone in her voice that Harry could not identify.

He didn't answer and looked to the side at one of the shelves. 'How to recognize a vampire' was written in bright red letters on a white book spine. 'Identification guide for dark creatures' on another. His jaw hurt worse than anything he had ever broken, sprained or otherwise damaged. It resembled a treatment with Skele-Gro but throbbed much more.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione jump up from a squatting position and listened to her footsteps. Tense, he hoped that she would disappear and leave him alone. He had enough of everything, and her presence alone increased the pressure on his jaw.

“I think you have a big problem,” Hermione said quietly. Harry looked up. She had stopped in front of a shelf and pulled out a tiny book.

“That can't be,” Harry replied pressed. She came up to him and placed the book in his lap. 'What vampires eat'. He frowned.

“Read,” said Hermione in a trembling voice and Harry rolled his eyes, suddenly annoyed.

“What am I supposed to read?”, he growled. “Probably the same thing is written on every page.” He wiped the book aside and propped his chin in his hands. “Any fool knows what vampires eat. What are you trying to proof?”

Instead of answering him, Hermione looked at the floor. “Professor Snape said in class today that vampires are terribly unrestrained,” she said quietly.

“So? Why should I care?”, Harry snapped, but his stomach lurched. That meant nothing. Nothing at all. He just didn't feel well, and she got on his nerves terribly.

“Besides, it is very difficult for them to pull themselves together in the presence of people when they are hungry. That's why many of them are outsiders,” she lectured.

Harry flinched. “I ran away because I groped Malfoy,” he yelped.

“If they were bitten, the transformation is not yet complete.” Hermione gave him a look of unease. “But usually, injuries heal on their own when the cell blueprint is renewed.”

He moaned in frustration. “That's all right, then. I'm not healing at all, so you can go out and whack other people with gloomy predictions.”

The look from the brown eyes became pitiful. “You read the title of the book. It's tiny.”

“So what?”, Harry hissed, but he knew that Hermione was about to strike out and smash all his excuses into shambles, and there was nothing he could do but watch her do it.

“You haven't got your glasses on.” Hermione had spoken softly, but Harry was as if she had screamed. Her hand slipped into the pocket of her cape and fished his glasses out. The glow of the torches broke in the lenses. Slowly she came towards him, kneeled down again and pressed the frames onto his nose. He blinked as the world around him became blurred.

“Oh Harry, I'm so sorry,” she said in a contrite way.

He gruffly wiped the glasses from his face and listened as they came up on the floor. Then he looked at Hermione. Her eyes swam in tears.

“Go away,” he growled.

Faltering, Hermione wiped her face with her sleeve. A small drop of blood had come out of the bite mark on her lip. His gums were burning and throbbing, and his fingers clawed into the carpet, splitting the tightly woven fibers as if they were cotton candy.

“GET OUT!” he shouted.

She stared at him with eyes wide open and took a step backwards. Something about him must have convinced her, because she slowly walked further away until her back hit a bookcase. “... I'm sorry,” she said, turning around and running out of the room with clacking heels.

It was harder than anything Harry had ever done not to run after her and suck her lip like an unrestrained moron. He buried his face in his hands and laughed bitterly.


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning Harry slowly staggered towards the Great Hall for breakfast. After he had spent the night in the dormitory and waited unsuccessfully for the boy who most likely had brought all this onto him, he decided to talk to Hermione. Maybe she knew what he should do now. Maybe her lip had already healed and he could talk to her without the pain ripping open his jaw. Even though they had been sleeping, he had not found it difficult to control himself in the company of the other boys.

When he entered the more lively part of the castle, the pain in his gums returned, even stronger than before. Students stood in the hallways, on the stairs, talking and comparing homework, and Harry cursed himself for leaving that late.

He felt as if he was crawling through a nightmare in which people consisting of nothing more than a neck and a throbbing, clearly visible carotid artery populated the hallways and gave off a smell that made the stabbing pain shoot into his jaw. If only he could walk faster! But he hardly had the strength to lift his legs from the ground.

Quietly he heard the students murmuring, the sound sometimes gained strength, then it ebbed away and his hearing seemed to pick up nothing more like a broken antenna. The corridor lay endlessly before him, and everything was swallowed up by a red veil that rose and fell like a pulse and only disappeared in the seconds he blinked.

Harry staggered, leaning his head against the wall. _Just a short pause, nothing more. Close your eyes until the world stops spinning._

How long Harry had been standing there, he couldn't say in retrospect. When he came to his senses again, the corridors were empty. A voice was booming from somewhere, but he couldn't understand it. As he tried to straighten up, his head bounced against the wall as if his body had lost all tension.

He fought on grimly, scrambling along the wall with his hands. The floor sloped in a frightening way and when he was ready to let himself fall, his hands hit a ledge, felt door hinges. Half-blind, he stumbled into the room and stopped for a moment on the hard tiled floor.

Calmly he registered that his body slowly regained strength and his senses sharpened, regaining balance. Perhaps this was a last rebellion before his final death. Maybe it sometimes took so long to die from a vampire bite. Had he had a bite wound? Harry didn't remember.

In the meantime his vision had cleared up. He lay on the floor in a lavatory and looked at a row of cabins. Swallowing his pride, he crawled on his knees towards one of them and pulled himself up at the toilet into a halfway normal sitting position. Then the world faded again.

This time he already knew he was not alone before he opened his eyes. He smelled the sweetish scent that turned the pain in his mouth into an inferno and his hands clawed into the toilet seat. The solid structure of the ceramic surface cracked under his fingertips and splintered.

"You have to drink blood, otherwise everyone will notice," said a voice.

"I must... not." Harry closed his mouth, for the smell that had filled the air was streaming in and causing something in his gums to crack open.

"It is already hard to miss."

Harry gritted his teeth. He needed all his strength for that. Something told him that if he opened his mouth again, he would not be able to be considerate.

"You look like a corpse. I mean, worse than usual. Your cheeks are turning black. You're also starting to reek."

Moaning, Harry rubbed his head against the shattered toilet seat, hoping the pain would take his mind off it.

"I'll make it easy for you. Just try not to kill me. In theory, you shouldn't have any venom yet, so..." He heard a movement and with a faint rustle, something sank to the ground. The smell intensified and a sharp edge drilled into his lower lip at both ends. "I'm sure you won't be able to resist much longer. The scarf is gone."

Harry gasped. His chest tightened. _Please, let me die right now_.

"I'll give you this, Potter. You're a persistent bastard."

A faint breeze and then he felt a burning sensation on his lips as bare skin pressed against them. In an inhuman effort to avoid the worst, he pierced his cramped fingers through the cuffs of his cloak and managed to retreat.

"Come on, now."

Desperate, he felt the wall in his back. The grinding of his teeth sounded loud in his ear. And then again the burning feeling of living skin on his mouth. He opened his eyes and saw a hand that had brushed long, blond hair from the back of his neck, revealing the roots of fine downy hair and a birthmark that contrasted with very light skin.

A laugh vibrated through Malfoy's neck against his lips. "You really are a hero, aren't you? You would rather die than let your school enemy have a single hair..."

Defenseless, Harry had raised his trembling arms. One hand clasped Malfoy's torso, the other pressed against his head and then his teeth pierced through the soft flesh, blood dripping into his mouth. He gasped and began to suck tight and the drop became a stream. As if through a veil, Harry noticed Malfoy twisting in his grip. He moaned faintly and his breath burned against Harry's arm.

As he drank, a force flowed into his limbs such as Harry had never felt before. He closed his eyes. Gradually, his body warmed up, the contrast of Malfoy's burning to his freezing cold fading.

"Potter? I..." he whispered and sighed.

Harry opened his eyes. Malfoy's body hung in his arms.

This time he was strong enough. Although his throat still burned as if he was dying of thirst, he managed to stop sucking. He relaxed his jaws and pulled out his teeth and suddenly he realized what he was doing. Shocked by himself, he took a closer look at the wound. He had imagined it to be worse. The bleeding had almost stopped. However, the bite wound was bordered by a large, purple-colored bruise.

Malfoy smirked, straightened up and fished for his scarf with his arm stretched out.

Stunned by the rapid recovery of his former enemy, Harry stared at him.

"You have damn long teeth, Potter," he said patronizingly, stroking his hand over the wound and looking contentedly at the clean palm of his hand. Then he wrapped the scarf around his neck again.

"But I thought you almost died! How is it possible that -"

Malfoy interrupted him. "As long as you have no venom, I can protect my carotid with a spell." He raised his eyebrows. "Since it's so cozy in here right now, why don't I tell you what I suggest?"

As he mentioned it, Harry suddenly realized which position they were in. His legs lay stretched out on the floor, slightly spread, and Malfoy sat between his thighs, his long legs drawn to his chest. He leaned against him with his shoulder and burst into loud laughter as Harry sharply drew in the air. Suddenly he became terribly warm.

"It would be a pity," Malfoy whispered into his ear, "if we just went our separate ways. Me in Slytherin, you somewhere else because you'd be kicked out of Hogwarts... Since we're getting on so well. A real tragedy."

"What do you want from me?" Harry snorted and felt satisfied as Malfoy flinched at his side. The taste of blood still lay on his tongue. He did not dare to move, fearing to attack Malfoy again, and so he hoped to get him to stand up.

"Nothing tricky, _Harry_. All I ask is that you greet me from time to time when you meet me out in the hallways." His lips were so close to Harry's ear that he could hear them opening and closing. "That you invite me to Hogsmeade for a butterbeer. To visit the parties at Malfoy Manor."

"So you're blackmailing a friendship out of me," growled Harry.

Malfoy laughed softly. "You could put it like that. Either way, you won't be able to refuse me this time. If you are nice to me," he purred, "I will be nice to you. Then you won't stagger through school like a corpse anymore."

"Like a corpse?"

"As I said, you already had black cheeks. Vampires do not starve, they just decay," Malfoy said lightly. "So you would expect real benefits from such a friendship. Besides, the Malfoys give great gifts. And I don't know anyone who doesn't like to receive gifts." Although he shrugged his shoulders, there was a lurking expression on his face.

Harry gritted his teeth and found that they seemed to be as short as usual again. If Malfoy ever moved his butt, the first thing Harry would do was run to the library and research. As if he would just take the word of a manipulative prick like Malfoy.

With a triumphant grin, Harry picked up the other part of the offer and replied, "I got a whole bunch of presents for my birthday and didn't unpack a single one! You can't bait me with that."

Suddenly, Malfoy averted his gaze. His eyebrows furrowed and his voice quivered in a strangely sad way as it lost its playful tone. "Okay," he murmured indistinctly. Despite the sudden change of mood, he did not move.

"What good would it do you if I waved at you," Harry asked through his clenched teeth, trying to ignore the weight and heat of the foreign body on his chest as a ball of nervousness gradually formed in his stomach. A muscle in his cheek twitched and he laboriously pushed his butt back a few inches and pressed it against the wall, giving him a slight traction in his back. At least Malfoy was no longer sitting directly on his lap.

"What do you think my family has been through? If you're my friend, people look at us differently." Now Malfoy sounded bitter.

Suddenly, Harry felt an urgent need to cross his arms in front of his chest and stamp his foot on the floor. He twisted his eyes. "All right. All right! But only if you get off me right now!"

Malfoy smiled. There was still a shadow on his face. "Fine. See you later, Harry." He got up and straightened his cloak before he slipped out of the cabin.

Harry slung his arms across the chest. The defiance had long since disappeared, giving way to an irritating feeling of great strength and confidence. With a guilty conscience, he listened to Malfoy's footsteps as they receded. He wondered abjectly how he could have gotten into such a mess, for it surpassed anything he had ever experienced before.

How could he have put Malfoy in such danger without knowing that he had effective protection? As he pulled himself together, Harry found it difficult to focus his thoughts on his goal and not blame himself.

Well, it wouldn't help him anymore now.

* * *

In the bright light of day, it was impossible for Harry to overlook that something sinister had happened to him, and he wondered how he could deceive the other students (and especially the teachers). Although a more human color had crept into his face and there was not much to criticize about him, he seemed completely changed in himself.

Most of it was just details such as the desaturated color of his skin and hair, while his eyes shone more intensely, or the fine veins underneath, which had darkened and made him appear slightly sickly. Combined with his pale skin color, this is certainly an indication that at least Professor Snape would not miss.

More noticeable differences were his missing glasses - here he could do something by going to look for his glasses and removing the lenses and replacing them with plain glass. And, of course, the lightening scar, which had been a part of him for so long that he was surprised that its fading had not been noticed by him already. Had he so masterfully deluded himself that he was still a human being, simply ill?

He smiled bitterly at his reflection and combed his longer hair with his hands forward until it hung in his eyes and covered his forehead on one side, where his scar had been before. This strengthened his vampiric appearance, but it looked intentional. Perhaps he could pretend that Snape's teaching inspired him to do so.

Slowly he stepped out of the toilet and into the hallway. Apparently he had already struggled quite far in his delirium because he was on the second floor. It wouldn't have taken long to get to the Great Hall. By now he was sure that he almost died after his senses nearly failed - so if he had made it and died there, he would certainly have spoiled everyone's dinner.

The twilight shone through the windows and threw large orange spots on the floor. He was not sure if he would burn or crumble into dust as soon as he stepped inside. Harry hesitated for the blink of an eye, then took a deep breath and jumped in front of one of the windows. The warm light tickled his skin. Nothing else happened.

Harry frowned. If that was just a myth, what other alleged facts were true? Questions that someone might be able to answer if not...

As if a cold fist hit his stomach, he remembered that he had missed another lesson that day and he regretted not having attended at least Snape's classes. There could hardly be a more inconspicuous source of information than official lessons, and the second-best alternative in the form of the creepy boy hadn't shown up. Now he was left with Hermione, who most likely blamed him for his absence from class and who would have to be appeased before she even spoke to him, and the library, which was very well stocked but seemed similarly hopeless to him, than to contact the Ministry directly.

As he walked lightly to the library, he thought about what to say to Professor McGonagall. One thing was certain; as a vampire he could no longer stay at Hogwarts, so it was out of the question for him to make an alibi visit to the hospital wing. The missing heartbeat and his body temperature would lead to amusing questions. He might complain that he did not feel so well after all that had happened before the vacations.

Harry swallowed. That wouldn't even be a lie, although of course it wasn't the real reason for his rude behavior.

When he slipped into the library under the watchful gaze of Madame Pince, he wasn't even sure what to look for. Perplexed, he stepped into the magical creatures department and walked up and down the rows of shelves, pulled out a book here and there and flipped through it.

_Gallic's Compendium of Dark Creatures_ claimed that vampires would crumble into a cloud of dust in sunlight. He narrowed his eyes. Gallic seemed to know as much about his trade as Harry knew about changing a tire. Amused, he turned the pages and the grin suddenly disappeared.

Horrified, he stared at the image of a corpse whose eyes seemed to move. It was a woman with stringy hair, the color hardly discernible anymore. The sallow, bluish shimmering skin was covered with a shiny layer that made it look even more nightmarish. Her eyes appeared as if a grayish, dirty lens had slid in front of them. _Decomposition status of a vampire, two weeks without food_ stood underneath.

Only two weeks? Harry shuddered and had to force himself to read the paragraph below the picture, only to discover, in the end, disappointedly, that apparently every vampire needed food varying in frequency, ranging from half a day to weeks. He did not find any indications whether he could replace the blood with another food source.

When he put the book back on the shelf, he swore to himself that he would check his whole body in the mirror every morning so that he would not miss his own _decomposition status_.

After a frustrating hour, Harry realized that while the library had many books that gave clues to the living on how to recognize a vampire, how to negotiate for one's life when there was no effective magical protection, and how best to trap them if nothing else worked (at which point Harry flinched), he found almost nothing that helped him. Only that it was a long-held tradition among vampires that whoever was responsible for the transformation, introduced the other into his undead existence. Great. Apparently the creepy guy who had been stalking Harry didn't believe in traditions.

He wasn't ready to give up yet, so he pulled a selection of books from the shelves to carry them to one of the tables. He had to find something. As he sat down, it became quiet at the tables around him. Harry looked around. He hardly recognized any of them, only Spence with his friend, whose name he still didn't know, at the other end of the room created a kind of distant familiarity. Spence nodded at him. Harry nodded back.

He turned to the stack of books and picked up a thin, greasy volume. _Vampires - A special species_ of Raymond Giddle. Since his search term was already mentioned in the title, Harry was hoping for something out of it. He hastily skimmed through it and was disappointed to discover that it was just a paean of praise for vampires and that the author was not stingy with flattering descriptions.

One should recognize beauty in macabre and so on. Vampires were said to have a fabulous sense of hearing, once trained, and the cat-like reflexes of a hunter, they could run incredibly fast and had a strength that surpassed that of any human. Besides, they were much prettier than all other creatures anyway. And they smelled better.

Harry had to control himself not to smash the book against the wall and put it away. Probably the author had a fetish. Nevertheless he closed his eyes and listened consciously. He heard the turning of old dusty pages, the scratching of several feathers, a cough. Things he probably would have heard even as a human. Embarrassed, he opened his eyes again and felt ridiculous.

He was about to get up, return the books and stop this desperate attempt when he heard something else. Tense, he persisted in his movement to push the chair back.

_Quiet, suppressed giggling. "If you mean it, Jesse, I want to take my last breath now." Breathe, once, twice. Louder laughter. Shuffling steps. "This is a library, not a rest stop for vandals! Get out!" Back of chairs. Two pairs of feet that move away. Stop at the entrance. Giggling. Then a strangely familiar heartbeat, breath, a sequence of approaching steps he has heard before._

Stunned, Harry opened his eyes and looked around. The table of Spence and his friend, Jesse Somebody apparently, was deserted. And before he turned around, the sweetish smell that sore his gums hit him like a slap in the face. It was not, as Harry had assumed, the simple smell of blood (otherwise he would have noticed it all the time he was surrounded by students), but simply the individual touch of a certain person. Before he spotted Malfoy on the shelf, he knew who it was.

Gliding his index finger along the spines of the books, Malfoy slowly moved on. Apparently he hadn't noticed Harry yet. Then his long fingers grabbed a book and he looked around as if he was doing something forbidden, and Harry noticed how he blushed in an interesting, appetizing way.

Harry knew that if he didn't do something now, he would pounce on Malfoy and rip open his damn blood-drenched cheeks with his teeth. So, following a silly impulse, he raised his arm and waved so violently that he knocked the empty chair next to him away and grinned so hard that his cheeks hurt. "HELLO, DRACO MALFOY, HARRY POTTER GREETS YOU IN ETERNAL FRIENDSHIP," roared Harry as loud as he could. The room had been suddenly bathed in silence, and everyone had turned to face him.

Malfoy flinched, the book fell out of his hand, and he gave Harry a sinister look before he came closer. "I didn't mean it that way," he said offended and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"You didn't elaborate further - and yet look how everyone is staring at us. That's good for you, isn't it?" Harry said the last sentence with an innocent look up in Malfoy's direction and his arms sank down.

"Well, I -"

"Haven't I told you troublemakers hundreds of times that you are not welcome here?," screamed Madame Pince in Malfoy's back. Apparently, she had been stalking towards them to yell at them ambushingly.

Malfoy turned around with the corners of his mouth hanging down and walked away. Harry followed him in good humor. He was aware of the looks in his back, so he walked a little faster until he caught up with the other boy and put an arm around his shoulders.

"You can stop now. This is all completely exaggerated," growled Malfoy, but did not shake his arm off.

Together they left the library. Only when they stepped out into the now dark hallway did Harry let go of him. "If anything was exaggerated, it was that you sat on my lap in the bathroom," he said. His cheeks felt heated. "Or rather in between." Malfoy stared at him. "What is it?"

"You just turned red," Malfoy said, frowning. "But that can't be." He came closer and paused for a moment, then reached out and touched Harry's cheek with his fingertips. "Compensatory justice. You fiddle with my face, I will do the same to you. By the way, you feel surprisingly alive."

Although he was no less astonished at the fact that he didn't seem and feel as undead as he should, he kept his mouth firmly closed. He leaned against the cold stone in his back and convulsively tried not to snap at Malfoy's fingers like a mutt. If this continued, he would leave Hogwarts voluntarily.

After what felt like an eternity, Malfoy let go of him and looked at him. Harry wanted to tell him to keep his fingers with him if he cared about them and opened his mouth.

"I have to go," he croaked instead. He did not wait for an answer, turned and hurried away.


	8. Chapter 8

After Harry had climbed through the hole that the portrait of the Fat Lady had uncovered, he stopped and looked out for Hermione. He spotted her by the fire, with a thick book on her lap, next to her on the rug Dean, who had leaned on his hands and wiggled his feet, smiling. Harry raised one eyebrow. Apparently, he was now always around.  
  
He approached them with the disturbing thought that Dean wanted more from Hermione - while she would close her eyes to this truth. Before she looked up, Hermione placed a piece of parchment between the pages as a bookmark.  
  
Smiling cautiously, she put the book aside. "Hello, Harry. Would you like to talk about our project? I'm free right now."  
  
"Uh - yes, sure," said Harry and frowned. Dean looked at him, slightly pissed off.  
  
"Let's walk a bit then," suggested Hermione. She went ahead, through the common room, out of the portrait hole again. Harry followed her into the dark silence of the castle at night and saw her positioning herself in front of an open window that let the night air in. Gently, the breeze blew through Hermione's brown hair and swirled it up.  
  
He stood beside her without saying a word. Together they looked silently down at the castle grounds for a while, watching how the moon's light was swallowed by the dark treetops of the forest.  
  
"You already know," Harry began in a lowered voice. "After you went through so much trouble to make me understand. And there's one thing I can't spare you, Hermione: I told you so."  
  
"What happened, anyway? How did it happen?" She was still looking ahead, but Harry could see in the silvery light that her face had become sorrowfully twisted.  
  
To buy time and find the right words, Harry rested his elbows on the stone ledge and leaned his head against the wall. Oddly enough, it felt cold on his skin and he had to think of the situation with Malfoy and his fingers on his cheek. He could not get rid of the thought that there was something strange about him. That as a vampire he should no longer feel cold and that his face should not heat up with shame.  
  
"It was Monday night. I woke up from my nightmare - it was the same one I had every night - and heard footsteps. Of course, I followed them. I finally wanted to know... Anyway, I found a boy in the bathroom. He did it then, I think. I wasn't conscious most of the time."  
  
Hermione shivered. "But how? Did you... find bite marks?"  
  
"No, I didn't." Harry raised his shoulders. "But there is something that struck me as odd and for which I have no real explanation. I have come to believe that he did it that way... and that maybe that's why I'm still alive. Did I tell you that every night after waking up from the nightmare, I had a metallic taste in my mouth? On Monday, it was still fresh, and quite clearly blood."  
  
"You didn't tell me," said Hermione, her eyes wide open. She wrapped a lock of hair around one of her fingers.  
  
"I wanted to, but then we fought. On the train. Anyway, I think he fed me with his own blood. He probably killed me afterward." Harry shuddered and thought of that distant crack that had come to him muffled.  
  
"Harry. You may be right, suspecting that you are alive because that vampire gave you his blood. I mean, I've never heard of such a transformation -" She looked at the strand of hair and put it in the corner of her mouth. "But Professor Snape has shown us that we don't really know much about vampires, since the Ministry itself keeps the information under lock and key. l ... can hardly believe the horror you must be going through."  
  
He took a deep breath. The cool air smelled of rain and autumn leaves. "I'm glad we can at least talk now. This morning I wanted to come to the Great Hall to see you, but I couldn't."  
  
Hermione gave him a faint smile. "Now you're here. How could you control yourself?"  
  
"Malfoy," he said. "I collapsed in a toilet and nearly died. Malfoy came, forced me to drink his blood, and then blackmailed me." Harry giggled as he thought about how he had complied with Malfoy's request in the library. "He wanted me to say hello ... and so I did."  
  
"I don't think that's funny, Harry! You can't tell me that you were about to die for good and then laugh," cried Hermione in outrage. Her expression had darkened and she looked at him as if she doubted his sanity.  
  
Harry stared out the window. "That's the way it was," he said sheepishly.  
  
"Then I hope for your sake that what Professor Snape said in class is not true. Namely, that the first human a vampire drinks from will always be special to him if he lets him live," she said snuffled.  
  
Snorting, Harry put his chin on the palm of his hand. "He always was. A special pain in the ass."  
  
"Yes, but what Professor Snape means is that -"  
  
"Listen, Hermione. I don't care. I can think about that later because right now I've got much bigger problems."  
  
"Like what?" Her arms crossed in front of her chest, she also leaned against the stone wall and now looked straight at him. "What is more important than the fact that Malfoy took advantage of your situation and basically shamelessly abused you? He knew about it because he was also in the class. I remember him having a lot of questions on that subject."  
  
Harry hesitated briefly but then shook his head. That Malfoy was taking advantage of something like this was obvious anyway. He could hardly have expected anything else.  
  
"For example, I had no idea what to do. There's nothing in the library but really nasty things, like pictures of corpses that are supposed to be vampires, who just haven't attacked a human for a while!" Towards the end, his voice swelled up and he noticed that he sounded slightly hysterical. "Nobody here really knows anything about this, and actually, the one who turned me should help me. I don't get along and don't know anything about my condition! Do you want to keep bitching about Malfoy or tell me what else Snape told you in class?"  
  
A laugh rang out behind them and Harry turned tense. If anyone had overheard them, he would have been screwed. When he recognized Malfoy leaning against the wall across the corridor, he exhaled with relief. It was only at that moment that he could sense the Malfoy smell that he had become familiar with, and despite the worries he had, he felt the desire for the blood that he had tasted at noon.  
  
"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" hissed Hermione. "You should be in your common room by now."  
  
He raised his arms next to his face and grinned. "I wanted to see what our friend was up to. I'm sure Professor Snape will understand." One might think he was looking for trouble, but to Harry, he seemed merely cheerful - as if he was happy just to be here and etch around. The biting repulsiveness that had once been a part of him seemed to be gone. Wiped out by the mediocrity of his new status as an insignificant person in the magical society.  
  
Harry sighed. "Don't feel obliged, Malfoy. Go and tell Snape. He might talk to me then. And give me a private lesson on vampirism."  
  
With a frown, Malfoy turned to Hermione. "I'd assumed you'd pass everything on to him. You took so many notes, I wondered why the table didn't collapse."  
  
Hermione turned her back to them and crossed her arms in front of her chest. Harry had the impression that she had snapped, although Malfoy's tone of voice had been neutral.  
  
"I chased Hermione away the other day. She didn't have many opportunities to talk to me," Harry explained, pointing to his mouth as he pulled his eyebrows together.  
  
"Oh." Malfoy suddenly looked embarrassed. "But you were able to restrain yourself?" he asked urgently.  
  
Harry grinned. Suddenly it seemed like a silly joke to him that Malfoy, after all these years, still wanted his friendship, so much so that now that he saw an opportunity, he manipulated and blackmailed and put himself in danger. How he stood before him, with his hands buried in the hem of his sleeves, trembling with excitement, his pulse as racing as his heart, pumping with a delicious, wet, smacking sound...  
  
He trembled and pressed his jaws together in such a violent motion that his teeth ached. Not fully aware of this, he took a step forward. No one said anything. Malfoy's eyes stared unmoved at Harry's face as he pulled the wand and pointed it at his own neck. His lips moved silently. Another step. Harry could see Malfoy's pulse pounding in his throat, and there was a murmur in the air that kept swelling.  
  
"You're not going to...," Hermione's voice in his back said indistinctly as he took another step forward. "Harry, NO!"  
  
This time it was different. He pressed Malfoy's body against the wall with his own and tilted his head, lips on his neck, and waited until his teeth pierced through the salty-tasting skin. Somewhere in the air, there was a sigh, fingers clawed into his shoulders, and then his mouth filled with life. Something hard pressed against his belly and Harry clung tighter to Malfoy.  
  
This time he was aware of whose blood was flowing into his mouth. It was Malfoy's breath whipping against his neck and Malfoy's legs at his hip, one of which seemed to be shaking. Malfoy's fingertips on his shoulders, clasping, nothing compared to the palpable touch on his cheek a few hours earlier. And when the blood flow stopped, he was aware that he was licking around Malfoy's neck to catch even the last drop.  
  
Whatever he had thought of Malfoy before, how much he hated him, or rather, how much they loathed each other, a certainty nestled itself in Harry's chest that took away any heaviness and dissolved fear and mistrust: It was as it should be.  
  
Harry opened his eyes, glanced at the shadow on the wall, interspersed with streaks of blond hair, and paused for a moment. Even though time had not passed him unconsciously, it seemed to him as if he was waking from a long sleep, and that a quick movement could cause a dizziness that would knock him and Malfoy to the ground. He left his lips where they were and felt the pulse pounding against them, listening to the rushing breaths.  
  
"You haven't answered my question yet," Malfoy whispered. "Were you able to restrain yourself with Granger?"  
  
The pulse beat faster. Harry moaned reluctantly and rolled his eyes. "Couldn't you keep your mouth shut for once?" A faint giggle, the heat atomized at his neck. "I held back, yes. She didn't press her mouth against mine after all," he growled.  
  
"I never -"  
  
Harry sighed and relaxed his arms, let go, and took a step back, shivering in the sudden cold.  
  
Malfoy's legs trembled and he slid down the wall a few inches before focusing on Harry with a strangely blurry look. "But I never put my mouth -"  
  
"Hermione bled at the lip," Harry said softly.  
  
Suddenly he remembered that she had been there the whole time. She stood not far from him, face pale and contorted, in an expression he couldn't interpret. She averted her gaze and walked away slowly, her arms wrapped around her chest. In front of the Fat Lady, who looked at Harry and Malfoy in consternation, she turned to him once more, her lips pressed together in a narrow line, before muttering the password and climbing into the quickly opening passageway.  
  
"I think I need some fresh air," said Malfoy, and slowly walked towards the window, resting his elbows on the stone ledge and taking a deep breath. He smiled. Harry stared at him.  
  
A drizzle set in, its tentative patter against the walls probably only audible because the window was open. The drizzle filled the air with a slightly sour, fresh scent. Harry moved closer to Malfoy.  
  
"I thought this Raymond Giddle with his stupid fan book about vampires had a fetish," Harry whispered, and a grin spread across his face. Malfoy's eyes widened, but apart from that, he didn't show any movement and was still staring outside. "But you easily outdo him. And above all, wordless. A masterpiece." He laughed. Malfoy winced.  
  
"You noticed? I thought you were too busy with your meal, kindly provided by me."  
  
Harry didn't reply. He felt that Malfoy was talking about something different, and he felt no need to point out his erection. It had all gone too far anyway, and it had only increased his confusion. Dejectedly, he wondered what kind of vampire he actually was. Why did he feel as human as before - and why did he feel, at that moment, that his heart was beating so desperately fast? Dried up and dead it should be. He shook himself, trying to grasp a clear thought.  
  
"We learned in class that vampires do not use blood directly as food. Apparently, it's a kind of substitute for their own when it dries up," Malfoy said softly, looking at Harry. "That still doesn't explain why you seem so human. Why do you breathe?"  
  
"I do not know. It just is," muttered Harry, puzzled by the simple fact that he had been missing it until now. Now, after Malfoy had brought it up, he realized that he was not sucking in air to detect odors, but simply to breathe. He closed his eyes and forced himself to let it go. Motionless, he stood there for several minutes, fixating Malfoy with his gaze and not breathing. The compulsion to take another breath did not overcome him.  
  
"Wow," said Malfoy. "Like a statue."  
  
"Now I just need to practice this." Harry realized how easy it would have been not to notice at least that sweet Malfoy smell that made all the evil inside him bubble to the surface, and he silently cursed himself for not having thought of it sooner.  
  
"Also, Professor Snape discussed with us why only a vampire could be responsible for the attacks." With his finger, Malfoy drew streaks across the stone as if tracing paths on a map. He sighed. "Actually, there is no real proof of this, but Professor Snape has discovered that this vaccine did have a magical component - one that ensures that the drug remains inactive in the body forever. Only the vampire venom, which destroys this spell, releases it. It is actually quite clever."  
  
Harry watched him while he spoke. Malfoy stubbornly held his gaze on his finger, which was still circling. Harry noticed how long his light lashes were.  
  
"The drug is a coagulation blocker. The victims lose their magical powers because the venom decomposes them anyway, but they no longer die from it. And that's how it happened."  
  
"But they turn into something anyway," said Harry and paused briefly, then told Malfoy about the woman who received the vaccination, lost her powers, and then sat on a roof and mourned the death of a person unknown to her. By now, he almost didn't care who he told. If Malfoy divulged something, it only harmed the ministry anyway.  
  
Malfoy smiled and then looked up. "Except, apparently, they're not becoming vampires. Maybe there are other mutations - or whatever happens to the people. I can imagine that the vaccine blocks part of the transformation, and the people just turn into some lesser dark creatures, ghouls, or something like this. That's where the ministry would have dug its own grave if they all got together and took revenge." He shuddered. "I don't even want to imagine losing my magic. To live like a Muggle. At some point, they're going to figure out it's the vaccine."  
  
"It's obvious, anyway. And once word gets out about Snape's lessons..." Harry shook his head. "It may save their lives, but imagine living as a Banshee and crying forever."  
  
"Fortunately, I did not get that vaccine. I'd rather be a vampire," Malfoy said, tapping Harry's shoulder teasingly, but then hastily pulled his hand back as if he suddenly realized what he was doing.  
  
Harry, too, began to feel self-conscious. He tried to remember when he last had a conversation like this, an open and honest exchange on an interesting topic. He could never have imagined that he would ever talk to Malfoy like this. "Better dead than a vampire," Harry said gloomily. "I never had so little control over myself. I can't even keep my mouth shut. Do you see it? Blabbing again." Harry swallowed, but then he had to grin.  
  
"You're kidding yourself. You never could keep your mouth shut no matter how important it was. I remember Umbridge's lessons." Malfoy laughed. No doubt he was thinking about the same lesson as Harry.  
  
Following an intuition, Harry pulled out his right arm and held it in the silver light of the moon, staring at the flawless back of his hand. _I must not tell lies_ should have been engraved in scrawly letters in his flesh, but the scars had disappeared. "But now it's worse than then," Harry murmured. "Before, I wouldn't have spoken to you like this. As if anyone could talk to you. Eh. "  
  
Malfoy giggled. "Then we can both be happy. That way, eventually, you'll have more friends, and I'll have..."  
  
"How much of this is because you're the first person I ever drank from?" Harry interrupted him, and when he saw Malfoy blushing, he suppressed the impulse to breathe deeply.  
  
"It's not like ... What did Granger tell you about this? It doesn't make you tell me more or anything," he stammered.  
  
"What then?"  
  
"But that my blood is better," Malfoy whispered. Meanwhile, his face had turned cray-red. "Than anyone else's."  
  
Harry frowned. "Why is this so important? Do other people no longer _taste good_ at all?" he asked.  
  
Malfoy exhaled heavily and a strand of hair danced in the sudden breeze in front of his nose. "I don't know." He shook his head and pushed himself off the stone wall before he dropped back against it. "Really, isn't it better to have less control over your mouth but barely be able to die? Besides, you are no longer obligated to anyone. You don't have to work, you don't have to represent anything. You can just do what you want and no one can get in your way." He looked at Harry, a wistful expression on his face. "I'd trade places with you anytime."  
  
"Oh, would you? Well, you'd make a lousy trade, then. What is my purpose in life, my goal?" Harry asked with a bitter tone that echoed in his chest. "I don't have to make an effort for anything. When I am close to decay, I drink from you, and that's it. What should I do for the rest of the time?" He raised his hands to his chest and turned his gaze away so as not to have to look into Malfoy's surprised face.  
  
"It's nice to be asked for permission," Malfoy said awkwardly and then laughed.  
  
"Yes, but this is what you were going to give me for my friendship. Your part of the blackmail story. Anyway, the threat to have me thrown out of Hogwarts is not working - I won't be around to enhance your family's standing. On the contrary."  
  
"Quite so. Very thoughtful of you," grumbled Malfoy. "But you have to find a goal in life for yourself anyway. Do you want to swap places with me? Marry a woman you can't even stand to continue a lineage that doesn't interest you? Spending your free time in the company of people who make you sick? In principle, you could do that as well or as badly as I could." He sighed. Harry watched out of the corner of his eye as he wrapped a long blond strand around his finger. "Sometimes, I play a game in which I give points to those who make rules for me that they themselves don't follow. This is the only way to bear it," he said hoarsely.  
  
Harry finally looked at Malfoy. He was amazed that he, of all people, admitted to suffer from his life. He had always bragged about it before. "It seems that your future wife prefers to spend her time elsewhere as well. I saw the engagement photograph."  
  
"Who hasn't seen it?" He rolled his eyes. "All the time, someone's asking me about it. Luckily, I have to finish school first. Only after that, my life ends," he said sombrely.  
  
Laughing, Harry pushed his hand against his shoulder. "You are dramatic. Which one of us is dead?"  
  
Malfoy smiled dully. "That's right. It's really easy to forget."  
  
"Can't you just say no? Your mother can have another child who might take care of it. Then you'll be free, and you can do", Harry looked helplessly over at the slim figure of the boy, about whom he seemed to know next to nothing, "what you do."  
  
"I would go away and do something totally stupid, which would drag the name of my family in the mud from my parents' point of view. Something really messed up. I might think of something one day," Malfoy said with a grin. "Right now, I don't know."  
  
"You could join the circus. Or dye your hair blue, or cover your skin with ugly redneck tattoos," Harry enumerated. It was fun to think of something, especially because Malfoy curled his lips with a smirk and seemed to consider his suggestions. "Eat all the time, just all the time, like a pig, and wipe your fingers on your cloak. And in your hair. And on other people. Or run away with Luna Lovegood or Snape."  
  
Malfoy leaned his red forehead on the palm of his hand, giggling. "I could go for blue hair. But I would never run away with Loony Lovegood."  
  
"But you would with Snape?"  
  
They looked at each other, then burst out laughing. Harry stopped wondering why Malfoy had come here at all, why he felt so familiar and why he felt he could stand at that window forever. He could hear it echoing in the thick stream of blood flowing through Malfoy's veins and he saw it in the powdery blush on his face.  
  
He did not notice that light blue eyes were watching him from the darkness of the hallway.


	9. Chapter 9

After Harry had said goodbye to Malfoy that evening, he was in high spirits. It had been fun talking to him; joking and teasing; forgetting the time and the fact that something unheard of had been done to him. When Malfoy's footsteps, which were thrown back from the walls, had faded away, he turned to the portrait of the Fat Lady.

"Griffin feather," Harry said softly.

The Fat Lady smiled enigmatically. "In my day, this would never have been possible." She propped her chin on her palm and bent over. "But I can easily sympathize with you. He's a handsome fellow." She winked at him blushing.

For a moment Harry hesitated and then it occurred to him that from here it must have looked like he was kissing Malfoy's neck. "It is not what it looked like!" he shouted. His cheeks were burning.

"Isn't it always like that?" said the Fat Lady, tapping her fleshy hand on her chest where her heart was.

"Griffin feather, Griffin feather!", Harry snorted and crossed his arms. A sigh and the portrait began to move. "There we go."

It had to be very late because the common room lay abandoned in front of him as he climbed through the hole. Although the fire flickered merrily in the fireplace and bathed the room in homely shadows, the atmosphere was spooky, as if he was the last person in the world.

Slowly he climbed over an overturned chair and walked towards the fireplace, dropped onto the most comfortable armchair in front of the fire and closed his eyes. After two days without sleep, he felt woozy, but not as fatally tired as he had felt last year when he had always been on guard. His current condition, however, was by no means unpleasant. It had something of long winter evenings with a blanket and hot chocolate and a certain anticipation of the first snow, of comforting darkness and timelessness. Would he ever have to sleep at all?

Lazily his gaze glided over the fire that was eating through logs, and fell on a crumpled piece of parchment lying on the fireplace rug as if someone had thrown it away and just didn't notice that he had missed the flames. He smiled and bent over, fishing for it with his fingers, too comfortable and sluggish to get up.

When he caught it, he wondered briefly if it would be proper to just read it. It was probably just boring homework anyway, a raw version full of mistakes. He unwrapped it.

_Dear Hermione,_

_I was wondering if you would like to go out with me. We have known each other for a long time, but I never noticed how pretty you are. I hope you won't hold this against me because I know that you're with Ron. But he is not here and apparently he doesn't really care about you. Well, I do._

_I hope you say yes._

_Dean_

While reading, the corner of Harry's mouth moved downwards. Certainly, Dean had written this letter when he, Harry, had talked to Hermione. Hopefully, she had given Dean a clear rejection. Or maybe he had not handed her the letter at all. The fact that Ron allegedly didn't care about Hermione was a ridiculous argument for this stupid pickup line, Harry thought, because the school year had started just a few days ago and Ron had begun a strenuous education, which certainly didn't give him time to visit her until the weekend.

Perhaps, he thought, that was why Hermione had been so angry with him for drinking from Malfoy. Because she missed Ron and Harry reminded her of it - although, of course, he hadn't _cuddled_ with Malfoy. Harry leaned back. He did not miss Ron that much. Not anymore. Not after that night.

Another smile lifted the corners of his mouth. He thought of what Malfoy might look like with blue hair as he would be eating as Ron did, wiping his greasy fingers on that pretty Slytherin girl Harry had noticed in class. How he would try to convince Snape to run away with him.

At that moment he paused. His fingers closed around Dean's note and crumpled it back up. But Malfoy wanted to raise his family's prestige with Harry's friendship. Why would he want to embarrass them? No. Surely Malfoy had given the wrong conditions for the trade. Harry had something else he wanted, because in their conversation that evening, Malfoy appeared honest to him.

Harry moaned in frustration and threw his back against the chair. Couldn't anything be clear and simple?

He only heard the soft footsteps when the person causing them had come halfway down the stairs from the girls' dormitory to the common room. Harry pulled his eyebrows together and tried to concentrate. The tapping sounded tentative, almost powerless, and was accompanied by calm breaths. It was impossible to hear who it was. A pity. That would have been a useful skill once.

"Harry, is that you?" asked a voice he would have recognized among thousands.

He turned around and hastily slipped the letter into his sleeve. Ginny looked tired as she stood behind him, pale and dull-eyed. Yet she smiled.

"I couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd better sit by the fire. May I...?" She pointed to a fluffy armchair next to the one Harry was sitting on.

"Sure," said Harry, watching her sit down. The glow of the fire emphasized her freckles and slight shadows under her eyes. Suddenly Harry felt bad, and a feeling of shame bubbled up in his stomach as he realized he hadn't spoken to Ginny in a long time. "Does that happen often? That you can't sleep, I mean."

She yawned. "Almost every night. But I don't let it bother me. It'll get better sometime."

"You could ask Madame Pomfrey for a potion," Harry suggested. "I'm sure she -"

"Oh, no." Ginny smiled soothingly at him. "I don't want to numb myself up or shut down. It's no use." She leaned back in her chair, looked straight at Harry. "I know what happened. And I will always know. But I trust it will get easier."

"I'd like your confidence," Harry admitted, and somewhere in his chest, something contracted, like a hard lump of grief, poisoning him from within. He swallowed and for a moment, it occurred to him that a vampire shouldn't feel this way. That he shouldn't care about what had happened to him or the dead from his past. "I will never forget this either."

"I can see that." Ginny bent over. "You look really bad. As if something was tormenting you, infinitely worse than the task you had before you. Is there anything I can do?"

Harry averted his eyes. With a sore throat, he fixated a full trash can in the corner of the room and tried not to be carried away by his feelings. "There is nothing you can do. I have to go through this alone," he said harshly. He had a hunch that it would be easy to confide in her. She would react differently than Hermione. Go through the advantages with him to comfort him. Just like Malfoy had done.

Ginny said nothing. Harry stared into the dark corner, listened to her calm heartbeat and thought about the things Malfoy had said. That he could hardly die. Obliged to no one. Had to represent nothing. Slowly the pain faded from his body.

Ginny's breaths became deeper and Harry turned around. She slept, curled up in the armchair, her features smoothed. The red hair had fallen into her face and danced in her breath. Harry smiled. There was nothing to regret about him; on the contrary. Some day he would get better.

He pulled his cloak over his head and spread it out over Ginny like a blanket. She wrinkled her nose but continued to sleep. A rich, flowery smell had spread around her, and just for a second, Harry forgot not to breathe, sucked it in, and a throbbing pain tore his jaw apart.

If he gave in now, her blood -

Harry froze, held his breath, squeezed his eyes shut. Then he turned around and ran up the spiral staircase to the boys' dormitory as fast as he could, a staccato in his chest like the memory of a rushed heartbeat.

* * *

After he had remained in the darkness of the dormitory for a while, listening to the distant thumping of Ginny's heart, which was repeatedly interrupted by much louder snoring from one of the beds next to him, he calmed down again. He would probably have to stay away from Ginny if no one else was around. Or for good.

He sighed and wrapped his arms around his chest. He had assumed that it was only Malfoy's blood, the scent of which aroused his appetite and tore his gums apart. How many students had he passed, just like that, without even thinking of tasting them? It had caught him off guard that the alleged connection between him and Malfoy even let through the need to quench his thirst on others.

As if he had spread a thick comforter over them, his feelings were muffled and merely echoed in his chest like a pale memory. He smiled dully and put his hands in the pockets of his jeans. If it was that easy to control himself, he could get through anything.

His eyes fell on the door to the bathroom. As in the night of his transformation, it wasn't closed, leaving a crack that revealed clean floor tiles. Quietly he walked towards it. Maybe he was lucky and would finally catch this boy.

This time he immediately realized that the room was empty when he slipped through the door gap. He could feel it; the loneliness seemed to run coolly across his neck. He swallowed and stepped to the sink again. By now he was sure he had died here.

Harry shook himself. To even consider this thought, just to admit it, seemed scary to him, like in a ghost story from English class. _Seized by melancholy and longing, the ghost sought out the place of his death, hoping not to forget his life entirely_. He smiled bitterly. If he were a ghost, at least he could not hurt anyone.

He leaned his forehead against the wall tiles and closed his eyes. At this point, he had stood, trapped between the wall and the body of a strange boy, casting a spell that would paralyze himself. Why had he not hit the vampire? Sometime later he had reached a kind of subdued consciousness, which he had misinterpreted as a dream the morning after. Hadn't he heard a distinct cracking sound?

Slowly he moved his chin, first to the left, then to the right. His neck had cracked when he regained consciousness - at this point he was already an... an undead. Unlikely that he was simply mistaken and his neck had stiffened. Nothing like that had ever happened since. His body was functioning better than ever before, except for the obvious problems.

A bitter taste washed into his mouth when something dawned on him that already sounded horrible in his head, unspoken. The boy had broken his neck when he, Harry, had become defenseless. Checkmate by his own magic.

And then he had been on fire and breathing embers, unable to move or scream, and became a curse of those he loved; a driven being that was a danger to them. He thought of Ginny sleeping peacefully under his cloak in the common room. He could have killed her without meaning to, without a moment's hesitation.

Tormented, he looked at the watch on his wrist. It would be hours before he could sink his teeth into Malfoy's neck. _The ghost hoped that he would no longer approach the living that night; too great was the fear of frightening them_.

Harry stepped towards the door and closed it, then slowly walked back to the place where he had lost his life and slid down the wall. Waiting for the morning, lurking for the next blood, he sat in the darkness, trying to convince himself that it would get easier sometime.

* * *

When the sun finally rose, Harry felt much better. The chaos of thoughts had eventually ceased and he had finally found himself in a state that he would most aptly call resting, for he had been aware of himself and the passing of time, but his arms lay motionless in his lap, legs stretched out on the floor. Malfoy's words came to his mind. Like a statue.

Relaxed, he slipped into a fresh school cloak and strolled into the common room in the general morning bustle, even winking at Ginny as she grinned at him. After a quiet night, one didn't feel that gloomy anymore. Not even as a vampire. Harry smiled.

At the breakfast table, the first mute of this sunny day overtook him, because Draco Malfoy had not come into the Great Hall. Harry was not hungry yet (it was not as bad as at night), but a faint worry lay in his stomach. What if he had taken too much blood? Or someone had discovered the bite marks?

These questions were repeated in his mind until he was afraid to utter them when he opened his mouth, so he said nothing, even when Ginny thanked him for last night. He nodded at her and then stared at his empty plate.

By the time he went to Transformation class with Ginny and Hermione, without participating in their conversation about exceptions in some magic laws, he was already much more discontented than before. He barely noticed them entering the classroom and sat on a chair in the back row, numb. Hermione hesitated, then gave Harry a warning look and pulled Ginny by the sleeve into the row of seats in front of him, leaving him alone, which was all right with him. Gloomily, he wondered whether he should just wait for the end (someone would probably report him) or hope that he had not harmed Malfoy.

Professor McGonagall stepped in and Harry looked up, for a many-voiced hissing sounded. It came from a large cardboard box floating through the door behind her. Suddenly it became silent around him. Many anxious glances were directed forward.

"Good morning. Today we will -", interrupted by another hissing and a rumbling, she looked frowningly at the cardboard and let it sink to her desk. "Honestly!" She opened it. There were large air slits in the flaps and Harry bent over. It sounded as if several pairs of boots were being knocked over.

"Well. Today we're going to go deeper into the art of transformation. You will be faced with a difficult task that you must master: The transformation of a larger animal into one of another species." She reached into the box with both arms and pulled out something fluffy. "Your task is to transform these possums into cats." She smiled and adjusted her square glasses.

"Excuse me, Professor, but... is it dead?" asked a girl from Gryffindor in the row in front of Harry in a low voice.

"Don't be silly, Miss Harmon, it's only pretending to be dead." She came limping to her and laid the animal on the table in front of the girl. "But they will only do that until you all get your practice animal. Then you'll find that you'll have to learn to work under pressure."

Professor McGonagall turned around and went back to the front. A blond girl bent over the possum of her neighbor. "Oooooh, it's so cute, isn't it, Ems?" Harry looked at the red-rimmed corners of the mouth and the sharp teeth and listened to the sniffing breath of the possum and wondered what was so sweet about it. It stank horribly and he tried to stop breathing.

"Mr. Malfoy, would you be so kind as to explain why you are so late," thundered Professor McGonagall. Harry winced and looked ahead. There he stood, red in the face, looking desperately between the teacher and the box of possums. Harry concentrated until he could make out Malfoy's familiar heartbeat between all the sounds.

"Professor Snape kept me to talk," he mumbled softly. It rustled and Harry watched as he pushed a note to her. "He excused me."

"Very well. Since we don't have too many practice animals, take this one," she handed him a limp possum, which Malfoy received carefully, and looked examining into the rows of seats of the students, "and share it with Mr. Potter." Apparently, he didn't look too happy with it, for she added, "Don't be so fussy. You're going to have to work with people you don't like a lot more often in your life."

With a furrowed forehead and wrinkled nose, Malfoy turned around and slowly walked towards Harry's table. He carried the animal in front of him and flinched as it snarled to draw breath. Harry grinned, although he wondered what was wrong with Malfoy.

As Malfoy put the possum down in front of him and sat down, Harry tried desperately to stop breathing. Firstly, a strong smell had spread in front of him, which he even seemed to taste, and secondly, it would certainly be noticeable if he were to jump on Malfoy here and now.

"My goodness, how the beast stinks. Good morning, Harry," he said quietly, tapping his wand on the naked, rat-like tail of the animal in front of him. Harry didn't answer because he was too busy trying to fight the urge to bite Malfoy's wrist. "I thought we would at least greet each other?"

Harry bit his lips, shook his head and pointed to his jaw. Malfoy raised one eyebrow and then nodded.

After the students had been divided into groups of two and each group had been given a possum, the animals became lively again. Harry watched with clenched teeth as Emily Harmon's hissed and jumped on another possum that had just been set down on the table by Hermione. What nice animals, he thought.

A warm breeze brushed against his ear. Apparently, Malfoy had bent over and was breathing deeply. Harry clung to his chair. "Professor Snape has set me up to investigate you," he whispered. "I was pretending not to suspect what he was getting at, but it's obvious."

Suddenly, Harry forgot that Malfoy was so close to him because it was as if an icy fist had been rammed into his stomach; he turned around and his nose bumped into Malfoy's. He paused for a second, feeling the strange breath crashing against his lips and looking into the widened, gray eyes. Someone coughed. Caught, Harry turned his head away so quickly that his field of vision blurred.

Sensing that Malfoy still hadn't moved, he heard his racing heart and looked around quickly. No one had noticed them. They were all busy trying to figure out how to stop the possums from tearing each other to pieces so they could try to transform them. Relieved, he expelled his breath. This could happen to anyone. One wrong move and everything could look like a kiss - but they would never let him forget that. Not with Malfoy.

Harry stared at the possum in front of him, breathing softly and regularly, apparently dozing off while pretending to be dead, and tried to focus his thoughts on Snape and his suspicions. It would certainly not be long before he had to leave Hogwarts. If he had not found this boy by then -

"Uh. Well, I won't tell him," Malfoy said softly. "But eventually, Professor Snape will realize it anyway. I mean, of course, he already has, but..." He moaned, waving his wand absently, and thick fur sprouted from the possum's naked tail.

With his chin resting on his crossed arms, Harry looked at him. His red face had shifted in concentration, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not fool him; his heart was beating so fast that Harry was sure Malfoy was afraid.

* * *

Harry once used the pauses between classes, in which students were complimented out into the yard, to talk about Malfoy or to unravel secrets with Hermione and Ron, but now, after his involuntary transformation, the pause became a gauntlet. Everywhere he went, he had to remember not to inhale. Not only because he picked up Malfoy's smell everywhere like a promise of his blood, but also because most of the odors literally struck him. Unwashed bodies. Generously applied perfume.

During this break, all the students in his class who had taken part in the NEWT Transformation class smelled like possum.

Harry wrinkled his nose and squeezed into the bushes that lined a flowerbed around the castle courtyard with their sturdy leaves. Hermione followed him. Obviously, she had somehow shaken off Ginny, for she was alone.

"Under no circumstances should you continue seeing Malfoy," she said. Harry turned to her. A nerve twitched in his cheek, underlining his impatience, and Hermione looked at him as if she expected him to attack her at any moment. "He is taking advantage of your situation. Besides, it's not right to drink his blood!"

"Whose then?" Harry replied in a dark voice. "Or should I just rot and hope that no one can smell it?"

"But it would be very selfish to endanger human lives, even if it's just Malfoy's, if you simply could leave Hogwarts to avoid doing so." She raised her shoulders and wrapped her arms around her chest so it looked like she was freezing. "I don't want you to go, Harry. You're my best friend! It's just a risk that doesn't have to be taken."

Harry stared at her, unsure whether to laugh or shout at her. "You wanted me to come here. You thought it would be safe here. Well, apparently not," he rumbled and struck angrily at a branch. "And now you want me to leave because the risk of having me here is too great. Do you think I would be less hungry at home?"

"You can't die anymore," said Hermione softly and stretched out her fingers to his face. He moved the corners of his mouth and avoided her touch. Distraught at his refusal, she added: "Not now, after you have sealed the transformation. It will certainly be unpleasant -"

He continued to retreat until the branches of the bush pressed into his back and broke off at his skin. "Are you really asking me to starve until I can't stand it anymore and... and kill myself?" he asked incredulously.

"No, of course not!" She went one step closer to him. Gradually he felt pushed into a corner. "It's just that you're very likely to kill somebody sometime."

Harry snorted and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Didn't you tell me that vampires are terribly uncontrollable? So I'm more likely to kill if you force me to give up voluntarily offered food."

"But you can't take Malfoy's blood twice a day and hope nothing ever happens to him! He needs it more than you do."

"Yes, I can. Malfoy has a spell that protects his carotid artery," Harry interrupted her. If she did not leave him alone immediately, he could at least not guarantee her safety anymore. He felt his stomach starting to seethe.

"These spells are not found in schoolbooks. He's probably using dark magic, Harry!" She lifted her hands to her chest.

"Why doesn't that shock me now? Besides, you don't really think someone's going to get arrested for using dark-magic protection spells, do you?" Harry snorted, now a little calmer.

"Until you develop vampire venom that will dissolve Malfoy's dark magic. I don't recognize you anymore," Hermione said and her mouth twisted as if she had bitten on something sour. "You are no longer the Harry who -"

Harry flinched. "Oh, maybe it's because I died? Have you ever thought about what you expect me to do?"

"I just want you to do the right thing," she said unhappily. Then her eyes widened, and at the same moment, a warm hand slid onto Harry's shoulder, a hand whose heaviness he recognized. He relaxed.

"Sounds like a really nice rendezvous in the schoolyard. I'm not disturbing you, am I?", Malfoy purred and pushed himself between Harry and the wall so he could stand next to Hermione. He glanced down at her and raised an eyebrow. "I think not." Grinning, he began to nestle on his scarf.

"Don't you have any sense of self-preservation, Malfoy?" hissed Hermione and turned red. "One day, there won't be much of you left."

"Yes, but unlike you, I don't argue with a hungry vampire," Malfoy said in an unnerving condescending tone. Harry rolled his eyes, but at the same time, the cheerfulness tugged at the corners of his mouth. Apparently, something about Malfoy's flappy, idiotic behavior amused him. "And even in a schoolyard full of people with warm blood. That's just plain silly." He waved his green scarf in Hermione's direction.

She looked at Harry with a disappointed look before turning away and slowly climbing out of the bushes. Harry didn't think any further about her and turned to Malfoy's neck.

"Professor Snape wanted us to spend time together and for me to spy on you," Malfoy said softly.

Shuddering, Harry put his lips to the warm skin. "I'm sure this is not what he had in mind."


	10. Chapter 10

Harry expected Snape to jump out of a corner at any moment and kick him out of Hogwarts, but to his boundless surprise, his life went smoothly for four whole weeks. His body had grown stronger and stronger with Draco's help (by now he had to watch where he was clinging when things were not going well; it had happened before that he had squashed the handle of a door with his bare hand.

Hermione buried herself more and more in her homework and essays, but Harry felt that her vigor had noticeably faded since they had left school over a year ago to go hunting Horcruxes. When she was studying, she would sometimes sit in front of the books for hours and stare around dimly as if her head was too full. Ron had still not come to visit.

"Maybe you should put that away," Harry said gently one Saturday morning and sat down in the chair opposite her. He had to stretch to look over the pile of books at her bowed head. "It might help to have some fun."

"If you think I should go to Hogsmeade and soak myself in Firewhisky -" Hermione started with a shrieking undertone and sparkled angrily at him, which she had to get up to do.

"No. That's not what I mean." Harry picked up one of the books. _Gwinnett's Prophylaxis Prophylaxis_. He blinked at the title in disgust, although a laugh bubbled up his stomach. "Who began with the Firewhisky?"

"Dean was here," Hermione said sullenly, "to ask me, just like you, Harry, to throw away my future for some joke article. I really don't know what you want from me!" She ran her hands through her hair, for what seemed to be the hundredth time that day, for it stood off on all sides as Harry's once did.

Biting his teeth together, he brushed his hand over the crumpled parchment with Dean's handwriting in his trouser pocket, which he had wanted to show to Hermione and was therefore constantly carrying around with him. But her mood kept him from doing so unerringly every time. He wasn't the only one who knew what Dean wanted from her; by now, probably every dumb mouthbreather at Hogwarts had noticed. Perhaps Hermione thought that the red rose she found on her plate every morning was a gift from Ron - which would explain why she had been clapping it on the floor more and more irritated over the past few days.

Eyebrows raised, Harry held the book up to her face. "If this is your future, I'm seriously worried about you." He grinned, but Hermione didn't look up from her essay.

"I've got to get this done, Harry! Just leave me alone," nagged Hermione and began to chew on her pen with an unnerving noise.

Harry shuddered and turned away, but the nibbling remained. He let his gaze wander through the almost empty common room. A small group of second graders looked over with eyes wide open. "All right. I'll go. But please remember that you're scaring the kids."

He had already stood up and had strolled to the portrait hole when he heard her voice once again. "But unlike you, I am not part of horror stories," she murmured. Harry swallowed, ignoring the dull pain in his chest and was about to leave when he heard footsteps trampling down the spiral staircase.

"Harry! Harry Potter, wait a minute!"

Harry held his breath and then turned around. A boy from his dormitory, wearing the shiny Quidditch Captain's badge on his chest, came hurrying down, his messy brown mop of hair bouncing to the beat of his steps.

"No," Harry said aloud as the boy reached him. Stunned, he remained silent and blinked at him without comprehension.

"But you don't know yet what I want from you," he said. His voice sounded squawking as if a radio had been tuned to the wrong frequency. He wiped his forehead. "Jim Sweeney. I saw you play Quidditch back then and I thought I just had to ask - of course you didn't have to play in the tryouts. That would be really stupid. I mean that everyone here knows how brilliant you are. Except the first-year kids. But they have nothing to say anyway, right?" He laughed, sounding like a snuffy bulldog. "You don't look too enthusiastic. If you want, you can fight for your place on the Quidditch team honestly, at least that's what you'd expect from a real Gryffindor. In that case, the tryouts are tonight."

When Jim Sweeney's flood of words broke off abruptly, he gasped. Two seconds passed and he writhed uncomfortably. Harry stared at him. Then he took a step towards Sweeney. He was smaller than Harry and had to raise his head to look at him.

"I have no place on the Quidditch team," he growled, "and I won't have one either. If you ever speak to me again, I'll throw you in the fireplace."

As he spoke, Sweeney's brown eyes grew larger and larger. Satisfied, Harry watched him swallow several times and then lower his eyes. "Excuse me," he murmured. "I didn't know this was a sensitive topic - if it is, of course. I just thought it would be nice to ask you. After all, you used to be so enthusiastic about it and under normal circumstances you might have enjoyed it again."

Frustrated, Harry moaned and left Sweeney as he stomped away angrily and climbed through the portrait hole. Of course, there's nothing he'd like more than to play Quidditch. He missed the feeling of cutting the wind with his body while his hair whipped in his neck; how life bubbled through his veins; looking down on the world from above. Another thing that this brat in the bathroom of the dormitory had spoiled for him.

Although his Firebolt was still in his suitcase, he hadn't had the heart to unpack it and take it for a spin because he knew how free and wild he felt on the broom, almost invincible - such an attempt would be a risk he was not willing to take. Harry doubted he would be able to control himself quickly enough if someone whose blood smelled tasty crossed his path. On the contrary, the firebolt was so fast that it would have left him very little time to react.

And besides, it would have broken his heart if the precious racing broom in his hand now felt like an ordinary broom, because Harry's magical powers had become weaker and weaker over the past weeks until the wand was nothing more than a dead piece of wood to him. He was no longer a wizard, and eventually the others would notice. A thought that usually filled him with a deep sadness, but that day it only kindled Harry's anger even more.

Angrily Harry stomped through the corridors of the castle, wondering why he was still here at all. Things might have gone well so far, but the students became more and more annoying and Hermione seemed to forget that he still had human feelings. Even the vampire boy hadn't shown up anymore.

When he reached the entrance hall, Harry took a deep breath. The various smells from all the humans at Hogwarts were pouring through him and it took him a while to find the sweet scent he was looking for. He heard a giggle and knew he looked stupid standing there, with an empty look, as if his brain had failed in the middle of the stairs.

While he waited for Draco Malfoy to leave his common room, he stared sinisterly at the girl who had laughed at him. She stood at the bottom of the stairs in front of her friends and gestured wildly at them. Probably his look burned into her neck, because after a while she turned around. It was Caldwell, the pretty girl who had been snapped at by Snape. She licked her full lips and smiled at him. Harry froze.

Slowly, her gaze directed to his face, she came closer, combining a playful suggestion with each step; she stroked her copper-red hair behind her ear; pulled her lower lip between her teeth; bit her fingernail. Though a silly laugh stuck like a stone in Harry's throat, he could not break the spell she seemed to have built around him by doing the same thing to her and laughing at her, for he had long since smelled her blood.

"Hello, Harry Potter," she purred and looked at him through her lashes with her head lowered, easy because she had stopped below him on the stairs. Her heart was beating in a rich tone. Harry's fingers clawed into his sleeve. "Alma Caldwell. My preferred companion needs a little more time to acknowledge me. Will you come with me to Hogsmeade?" She half-closed her eyes and looked at Harry with a bedroom eyes. "I know some narrow alleys. We could be undisturbed there."

"First you laugh at me, and now you want me to -" Harry growled with clenched teeth.

"Oh, you don't have to worry about that. I laugh at everybody. Laughter supposedly makes you more attractive," she whispered and put one foot on the step where Harry stood. "Interesting that you noticed that it was me. You must have had your eye on me, didn't you?"

Harry shivered and wondered why the trick steps were so far away - now that he needed them. He could never push her into one of them without drawing attention to himself. Even when he had stopped breathing, he could still hear her blood rushing through her veins and the pain ripped at his jaw. It would be simple to say yes. Attacking her in a dark alley. But the end result would probably not be what she had imagined. The situation was so grotesque that he did not know how to behave.

As her finger stroked up along his arm, Harry felt his cheeks burning. If Malfoy didn't hurry up and walk out of the dungeons, she would probably undress him here on the stairs - unless he stopped her. Meanwhile, her friends laughed openly and pointed their fingers at him.

Her second foot slipped between his legs, she climbed up the stairs and stood close to him on the steps. Although her breasts pressed against him and her hair tickled his nose, he could only detect her pulse, which was rushing down her throat close to his mouth.

In his thoughts he saw how he would push his teeth through her flesh and the blood running from his mouth; and in this image he found the strength he needed to take a step back, to bring a stair between himself, Alma and her saturated bloodstream.

She grinned and put her foot between his again. "I see you like games. And I can promise you that I have mastered many games," she said quietly.

And finally, in a moment when Harry was about to give in, Malfoy came running up the stairs and grabbed her shoulder, his knuckles white. "Cut the crap, Alma!" he hissed. "You'd best go back to Professor Snape, there's more of a chance."

Never, not once in the last four weeks, had Harry ever been so glad to see him. Trembling with relief, he watched as Alma turned to Draco with an angry expression that distorted her pretty face. She buried her long fingernails in his hand on her shoulder. He hissed painfully through his teeth. "I don't take orders from you, Malfoy," she said coldly and looked slowly down at him. "You don't mean a thing to nobody any longer and you still act up so pathetic."

Malfoy said nothing, but his outstretched arm trembled and Harry could hear his fingernails sliding into the skin of her shoulder. He clenched his fingers together and held his breath so that the delicate drops of blood that came loose would not drive him insane. It was bad enough to know of their existence.

"Everyone noticed you sneaking around Potter, but you have no claim on him," Alma hissed and narrowed her eyes. "I will get him, I promise you, Malfoy." She drew her lips to a confident smile and then turned to Harry to blow him a kiss.

Harry gritted his teeth. He suddenly had a great desire to rip her full lips from her damn face.

Alma pulled Draco's hand from her shoulder and walked down the stairs. When she reached her friends, they all started cackling loudly. Shuddering, Harry looked at Draco. He stood motionless, his arm still raised. His face was distorted, deep hatred carved into his features. "I'm going to gut this shrew if she says something like that again," he blurted as he turned to Harry.

"What do you want me to say? She was almost _inside_ _me_ ," Harry said disgusted.

The corners of his mouth turned down, Draco grumbled: "She seems to like dark guys with rims under their eyes. She's been flirting with Snape since last year, but she's probably gotten bored with it." He wrinkled his nose and blushed.

Moaning, Harry shook his head. "Hopefully she will become a lesbian before she gets even more bored. I don't want to go to Hogsmeade today after all. I feel more like hiding in the Room of Requirement."

He turned away and slowly climbed back up the stairs. His legs felt as if they would give way under him any moment. Arriving on the landing, he heard Draco following him and sighed in relief.

* * *

Harry walked up and down the seventh floor in front of the empty wall. _I need a room in which I can hide_ , he thought for the now probably twentieth time. Filled with anger and frustration, he punched the wall and a crunching sound was heard. He froze, looked down and saw that he had hit one of the stone blocks in the middle; fine cracks stretched outwards from a round crater.

"If you want, I can try it too," said Draco Malfoy languidly. He leaned against a wine-red wall rug, his arms crossed in front of his chest, eyes closed - and he looked as if he was terribly bored.

"I can do that alone," cried Harry.

Draco opened his eyes and looked at him with a frown. "You didn't realize you couldn't do magic anymore? Maybe that's why it's not working." He stepped towards the wall and walked up and down three times with his eyes closed. When a door materialized next to him, he opened it and bowed to Harry like a valet.

Harry rolled his eyes, but then came closer. If he could leave this damned castle behind for a while, he would even live with Malfoy making fun of him. "Thanks a lot," he said sarcastically.

After he walked through the door, he stopped motionless, as if a full body bind had caught him, and looked around helplessly. The room was large, but empty except for a single chair and a large coffin in the middle. Malfoy giggled, closed the door behind him and the torches on the walls were lit. They were lodged in blackened iron brackets.

"So this is what you imagine under a comforting room to cower in?" Harry asked, shuddering as he dropped onto the chair.

"I thought vampires like that sort of thing," said Draco and laughed. Then he wrapped his fingers around Harry's arm and pulled on it, much too timidly to get him to stand up. "The coffin was actually meant for you."

"Surely you don't think I'm going to lie in it at your feet." Disgusted, Harry leaned forward and peered inside. "Not even padded. With tricks like that, you couldn't lure even the most dried-up vampire out of the tomb."

Next to Harry, another chair popped up out of nowhere and Malfoy sat down. "What lame vampire jokes." He shook himself. "So this is what we've come to."

"Remember you started it," Harry said with a grin. He stretched out his foot and wedged his heel in the wooden wall of the coffin, then tensed his muscles and pulled it closer. With a horrible crunch, it slid across the stone floor until it lay in front of them. Then Harry stripped the shoes from his feet, put them in the velvet lining and leaned back.

"After all. With one foot in the grave."

Harry rolled his eyes and watched Draco take off his shoes as well. He bent over and placed them neatly side by side before he let his feet slide into the coffin. Suddenly, the velvet puffed up, getting thicker and softer.

"I realized that I can't do magic anymore," Harry said gloomily. "Of course I understand that. But it's not something you just go around telling people. I just wonder why it didn't happen before now."

With a worried look on his face, Draco leaned forward. "What do you mean, before _now_? Did you use magic after you were changed?"

Uneasily Harry raised his shoulders. "Yes. Although not as well as before. Sometimes it took several attempts, but it worked. It hasn't worked at all for a week now." He spoke softly, and Draco leaned forward to hear him. His head was now almost on Harry's shoulder.

"I don't understand this," he said. "You're blushing - often enough, I'd like to remark - and sometimes it looks as if you're just a particularly tired person. You breathe. You are warm. And now I learn that you lost your magic powers only after a while."

"Do you think I understand what's happening here?" The helplessness that had gripped him since the beginning of the vacations; since this vampire had decided to drive him insane with his spook, paralyzed him. Now it was just worse than before, because in the meantime he longed for answers so much that he wished he could just go to Slughorn and ask him what that damn vampire's name was at that party. He lowered his forehead to the palms of his hands. "Do you happen to know any vampire who can explain anything to me?"

"Maybe I do, but I can't--" He interrupted himself when Harry turned so quickly on the chair that he broke the backrest. With a clanging wooden rattle, it fell to the floor.

"Tell me his name," he yapped. There was something puckering in his chest like an angry heartbeat. Wood splintered under his fingers.

Malfoy flinched. Harry saw his own distorted face reflected in his widened eyes, and although a slight discomfort gave him goosebumps in his neck, he stood up, trembling with rage. His hand reached for blond hair, pulling it back until Draco was forced to look up. It was as if he was not acting on his own; his rage had evoked a dark, brutal being inside him that had snatched control away from him in his most helpless moment.

But he had no right to withhold this information from Harry.

"Tell me the name," he growled and tore harder at the tuft of hair. Malfoy squeezed his eyes shut in pain, his face had turned red and something inside Harry was desperately trying to loosen his hand.

"If I do that, he'll tear you to shreds," whimpered Draco. "He's much older and stronger than you!"

For a moment, he paused, half bent over, his teeth clenched, and then everything collapsed. Harry's sudden rage flowed out of him into the ground, leaving him cold and hollowed out. His grip loosened and his legs gave way. As if time had slowed down, the ground bowed towards him. It cracked when his knees hit the stone. He put his hands in front of his face, and only then did the horror that had lurked in his belly overtake him. "I'm sorry," he said roughly. "I don't know what happened to me... I don't know."

Draco remained silent. The heart raced in his chest.

"I should leave Hogwarts. I should... First, I almost killed this girl, and then... that," Harry said muffled and clawed his fingers into his hair.

One deep breath. A rustle. Then Draco put his hand on his own. "Nonsense. No one belongs here more than you. Unlike you, I _would_ have killed her. I still want to." He chuckled and stroked Harry's head. "About that other thing..." His hand slipped down Harry's neck, fingers reached for his hair, and suddenly they pulled so hard that Harry gasped. Pain branched out over his scalp, fine and punctual. Draco smiled. "Compensatory justice. If you pull _my_ hair..."

Now Harry was forced to look up at Draco, and he glanced at the deliciously reddened skin and the pale hair that had risen on his cheek, then down to the pulse that was pounding under the soft, heated skin in Malfoy's throat. "Why do you want to kill her?" he asked softly and swallowed.

"She's just disgusting the way she pressed herself against you," whispered Draco with a toxic undertone in his voice, then he paused briefly, shook his head and gasped. "I mean, the way she... She begged for death, that's what I meant," he stammered and pulled Harry's hair harder.

It was obvious Draco was jealous and something was jumping in Harry's chest noticeably.

"Maybe you'd better go," Harry said harshly, turning his head until his lips touched Malfoy's forearm. He opened his mouth and scraped his teeth across the soft skin. He knew that the spell Draco had placed on his carotid artery as a precaution did not reach this far, and this fact excited him, challenged him.

Draco gasped, but did not loosen the grip of his trembling fingers. "I'm not going," he said in a quivering voice and, as if to underscore his words, glided down from the edge of the chair until he too knelt. His knees slipped off Harry's legs. Yet he did not let go.

Sighing, Harry looked up. He had hoped to see fear in Draco's gaze, suspicion, disgust perhaps, but his eyes rested on him, the pale gray glowing in the powdery blush of his face. His mouth stood open and the gasping breath dispersed in rapid succession across Harry's forehead.

He knew what would happen when he leaned forward, just a few inches; often enough he had imagined it, bashfully during the lonely nights in the small bathroom, when the memory of the taste of Draco's blood still lay on his tongue.

It would not have been easy to escape. The scent of the blood wafted around Harry's thoughts, but still he could think of a few measures he could have taken to protect him. He could break Malfoy's arm. Throw him into the coffin and sit on it.

The tangle of excitement and the urge to indulge his lust was humming in his stomach. Harry smiled and leaned forward slowly as the fingers parted from his hair.


	11. Chapter 11

(Sometimes, alone in that tiny bathroom, protecting the world from himself, he wondered what was going on inside him since the transformation. He had left him, Malfoy, alive, apparently weaving a singular connection between them that had overcome his defenses with its sharp threads and penetrated deep into his chest. It had caused him to bypass the deep trenches they had dug between them in their school days, had awakened a curiosity in himself over what might lie behind.

But perhaps it had been like that before, much earlier. And he had been too busy suspecting Malfoy instead of listening to his own feelings.

Sometimes he had wondered what Hermione and Ron would think when he told them that at night he thought about tugging at Malfoy's clothes until they tore. Or Ginny. He had seen their horrified faces in front of him, heard their stammering, their disgust, and thus made the consequences of his thoughts clear to himself.

The plan had backfired as his dreams continued to spin; suddenly he ripped cloaks and shirts in the presence of his friends to bathe in the collective horror as he ran his tongue across Malfoy's chest. As time passed, the dreams had become bloody and brutal; his friends watched as he drank the blood that splashed unimpeded from Malfoy's throat while he plunged into the naked body. How his teeth tore open the flesh. How the monster that he was killed in a dark frenzy.

Harry came to the conclusion that he should never let it come that far. The moment he would give in to his sexual desire, he would not be able to stop himself from killing. In his fear, he combined his lust for Malfoy's body with his craving for his blood and he was sure he would exterminate everything human that made him what he was.)

The lips felt different than he had imagined. They were not hard and thin, as if he was kissing a warmed washbasin edge. They were soft, alive, moving with his own. He kissed Draco Malfoy and opened his eyes to see the line of the sharp chin, the obtrusive redness on the skin and the long eyelashes he had noticed before. He kissed Draco Malfoy and loved every second of it.

Draco sighed. His eyes opened fluttering and focused Harry, but his mouth continued to kiss and they looked at each other. The hand that had previously been clasped in his hair stroked his cheek and he shivered in a pleasant way. Then Malfoy let it sink down along Harry's arm and fingers wrapped around his own.

Although their lips did not separate, their kisses felt innocent. This moment was so fundamentally different from the images he had in mind when he thought about kissing Draco Malfoy that something contracted in Harry's chest. There was no blood, no violence and no danger. Not anymore. He raised his arm and stroked the pulse in Draco's throat, interrupting the kiss. "You cast the spell, didn't you?" he breathed against his sore-kissed lips.

"Yes. I never forgot," said Draco softly and put his mouth back on Harry's.

"Wait, I just want..." Harry embraced Draco, pulled him close until he felt the heartbeat pounding against his chest. Then he leaned his head on his shoulder, on blond long hair and kissed Draco Malfoy's pulse.

Arms clung around his shoulders, hands brushed across his neck, his spine, and everywhere his fingertips touched him, they created goosebumps. As if Draco had intended to cover his entire back with them, he found every spot from armpit to waist.

As Draco's pulse quickened, Harry opened his mouth to a gasp. The thirst burned in his throat and his gums throbbed sore, his teeth brushed across the tender skin and the hands on his hip began to tremble. But instead of biting, Harry licked across the neck until the pounding on his tongue echoed through his body.

A moan, and Harry began to suck the skin without hurting it. It tasted salty and full and like the promise he painted over it with his tongue. He looked through half-closed eyes and his eyelashes dyed Draco's hair in his field of vision darker until it blurred.

His hands, which had held him in a tight embrace, now stroked Draco's back, but Harry didn't take as much time to explore as Draco did; he put them on his firm bum, pressed it against him while he sucked and licked over his throat.

Eventually, Draco let go of him and Harry, fearing a sudden, icy rejection, paused in shame, gazing at the bruise he had soaked onto the white neck. What would he do if he had gone too far and Malfoy would push him away?

He squinted his eyes and straightened up. Although the excitement was still throbbing inside him, he felt cold and hollow, as if Draco had already rejected him.

When he opened his eyes, he saw that Draco had turned his head away. His face was severely reddened, as if on fire. He breathed hastily, panting almost, and a drop of sweat slowly ran from the hairline on his forehead. Harry followed him with his gaze as he waited for the inevitable.

Then, very gently, Draco raised his hands to the hem of his cloak, got hold of it despite its tremor, and in a single, flowing movement, he tore it up, over his head, and threw it behind him. He still looked to the side, but his heart was pounding so fast and full that Harry had to grit his teeth.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Draco completely naked, and though he was thrilled, he didn't dare look at him because his throat was burning and the throbbing in his gums mixed with the pulsating in his lap in a striking way. It scared him, just like at night in that bathroom.

Suddenly, Draco turned his head and looked at him, eyebrows raised questioningly, lip trembling. "You don't want...?," he asked, the words like a breath and if Harry hadn't waited for him to speak, he would have thought it was in his imagination. "I thought you wanted... m-me." Hurriedly, he looked over his shoulder. "I'm going to get dressed again, disappear and be ashamed to death," he murmured more clearly and without rasping.

"Fuck," Harry said roughly and forgot his fear for a moment, finally looking at Draco's body. He followed the delicate lines of the scars he had inflicted on his chest ages ago, over the rosy nipples, the ribs and along the narrow waist to the flat stomach, over the navel and the light-colored fluff that turned into curly hair on its path down.

Still, despite the misunderstanding between them and the resulting embarrassment, Draco's penis was erect, the veins standing out darkly against the reddish flesh. Harry moaned, pulled his lips between his teeth, and he didn't care that they were poking into it because it might stop him from bending down and plunging it into Draco's erection. It was only when a ripping noise sounded that he noticed that his fingers had clung to his cloak.

"Fuck." Harry's skin seemed to consist of tension as he pulled the broken cloak over his shoulders and for a brief moment the world sank into blackness, then it slipped off his head and lay between them like a black puddle. Without taking the time to pay attention to the faint anxiety in his belly, he took off his shirt, nested on the button of his jeans and did not manage to open them. "Fuck."

"If you want, I can try it," Draco whispered and crawled closer on his knees until they bumped against his own and his long fingers tore and pulled until the button came off.

He laughed hoarse, slim, warm fingers gliding into Harry's shorts, stroking a path of goosebumps across his hips to his back, onto his butt, and out of pure helplessness, Harry tilted his head, sucked on the blue spot on Draco's neck again. His pants slid down but then got stuck on Harry's hard-on, and a moment later the hands moved forward, sliding up from his thighs, separating heavy fabric from heated skin. Then they disappeared and Harry shivered in the sudden cold.

He detached himself from the throbbing skin on Draco's neck and watched as the gaze from the grey eyes drifted down his body. Although Harry had never felt he was particularly beautiful, Draco gasped and moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. Desire became almost tangible; he heard it in the rushing bloodstream, saw it in the blurred look, in the moist shine that had settled on Draco's glans, and this reaction inevitably and inexorably set him on fire.

Without consciously deciding to do so, Harry tensed his muscles, but he took a little more time. It was a lurking moment, for another reaction, for an approval, and Draco opened his mouth, closed it again; stroked back his foreskin with his hand and shivered with his eyes half closed; the lurking collapsed and Harry pushed his upper body forward in a rapid movement, burying Draco beneath him.

Instead of flinching anxiously, Draco bit his lips, his cloudy eyes fixed on him, and wrapped his thighs around Harry's butt, pushing him down into his lap, and suddenly all tension centered on his glans, which rubbed through frizzy hair until it met Draco's penis. Arms clasped his shoulders, pushing him down.

Moaning, Harry pulled his pelvis back, only to thrust forward again and his mouth slipped down on Draco's chin, to his neck, feeling the pulse and wheezing. "Now, bite me, drink from me -" and teeth glided through the reddened skin and a raging stream of blood poured into his mouth. "Yes, go on, don't stop, please. ...", Draco moaned. Clenching legs and bumps and slides on damp skin, in damp curly hair and swallow; sweet, warm life on his tongue.

A hand that slid into the space between their bodies - as if that were possible, as if there was room for anything else but this desire - and caught Harry's penis in its slide, pressing it against Draco's, rubbing against them and there was nothing more than this tension, and just one more rubbing and it flowed out of him and lay on top of them as a sticky warm layer, spread by the trembling hand.

It happened way too fast, but considering their situation, it was probably better that way.

Harry did not move. Ashamed, he blinked without seeing anything in particular and gradually registered what he had done, what he had risked. The hand, Draco's hand, was pulled out between their bodies and lay wet on his bare bottom. Apparently he had not stripped the trousers from his legs, still they hung in the back of his knees like a dead weight.

He heard the rush of Draco's heart, felt it on his chest, listened to the whipping breath, but after all he had imagined during the nights, he still didn't dare to believe that he hadn't killed him, despite the rush in which he had even forgotten his damn pants. The blood flow from Draco's neck had long since stopped; the bite wound had already closed again; but that had not been the cause of death in his fantasy anyway.

With a shiver, Harry leaned onto his trembling arms and looked into Draco's face.

He smiled sluggishly, his lips rough and cherry red, a deep confidence in his eyes, and something in Harry's chest tightened despite the relief that spread within him. Draco was taller than him, perhaps even stronger; yet he seemed so incredibly fragile.

Draco leaned up and kissed him, whispering a tingling sensation on Harry's lips, and at that moment, the monster slowly dissolved from his imagination like a photograph licked at by a fireplace flame; the image became dark and shriveled, the doubt with it.

The embrace, the touch of Draco made Harry alive. It was not a blurred idea, not just a feeling. It was certainty.

* * *

As they lay silently, motionless, side by side on the thick blanket that had appeared beneath them at some point, Harry saw how handsome Draco was. He wondered if he had never noticed or had not wanted to realize, back then, when they were enemies and the world was an unmistakable place, black and white without nuances. The smile, the long eyelashes, shiny-smooth blond hair and soft, very fair skin, ignored then, had long since been burned into his focus.

With a painfully contracted throat, Harry stretched out a finger, stroked the cheek, without taking his eyes off the eyes that stared at him unbroken.

Draco smiled. "You are so pretty," he said softly and then turned his gaze away, blushing, and Harry laughed. "Really. You don't have to laugh, it wasn't a joke."

Harry moved closer, laid his head on Draco's chest, "It's a joke. You just haven't understood it yet," he murmured and caressed his belly, watching his fingertips stroke over scar tissue and plow through light hair fluff. "Maybe some people get prettier when they walk around as vampires, but not me. I'm still the same."

"True," he replied. "You were always beautiful."

Though Draco could not see it, Harry rolled his eyes. "Sure, as an 11-year-old toad with glasses. I kept knocking everyone out with my sheer attractiveness."

"And you didn't even notice. Obviously." Meanwhile, an offended undertone had settled into his voice. "Well, you certainly knocked _me_ out."

"And because you were so carried away, you kept attacking me." Harry smiled and tugged at blond hair.

Draco's chest rose and fell in a laugh. "But it's true. It was something like that, really." He ran his fingers through Harry's hair and stroked his scalp. "Whenever you didn't notice me, I was watching you."

Uncomfortable, Harry writhed. He did not doubt the honesty of the words, but their meaning sounded bitter in him like a missed opportunity. He straightened up and looked down at Draco. "I wish you had told me that at some point. Or shown me. Perhaps then I would have seen your beauty sooner."

The smile on Draco's face grew wider. "That's what I call a chivalrous accusation." He giggled and sat up and kissed him.

"At least then you wouldn't have had to blackmail me," Harry puffed into the kiss. "But I hold no grudge."

As they slid deeper into the kiss, their naked bodies began to rub against each other again, and the connection between them intertwined with stronger ties, the door was pushed open behind them. Their embrace tore apart and they drove off, and before Harry looked up, he heard a heart racing in fear and knew something had happened.

* * *

Rigid and numb, he saw Hermione's distorted face. She was extraordinarily pale and her lips trembled, but the expression of panic was softened for a brief moment when Draco cried out in horror. She opened her eyes and let her gaze wander over the scene, which was certainly hard to misunderstand, then she blinked and opened her mouth to a faint sigh.

Harry felt a breeze in his back, and suddenly Draco pressed up against him from behind and started pulling on the blanket with a wildly pumping heart. It took him a moment to gather it all up, then he spread it over Harry's shoulders.

"Your right foot is looking out, Malfoy," Hermione said in an endeavoringly neutral tone, but she still stared at Harry, lips pressed together.

"How..." Harry interrupted himself and coughed ashamedly. He had actually wanted to ask her what had happened, why she seemed so frightened, but instead he stammered, "How did you get in here?" At his back he felt Draco twitch.

"I wished for a place where a vampire would hole up." She pointed behind him on the coffin. "But I didn't think you'd... That I would... Dear God." Slowly, a slight blush crept up her neck and made her, with her still pale face, look strangely blotchy.

"I really didn't think," said Draco, his voice muffled through the blanket, "that you would come up with that, Granger. I'm really sorry, Harry." Gently, he stroked his spine with his hand.

Harry sharply sucked in the air as inappropriately ramified arousal passed through him. "I forgive you if you stop this." A puff of breath on his skin, then nothing. Then the tickling of a tongue that drew a moist trail over his shoulder. With narrowed eyes, Harry shook himself and pulled the blanket closer. "Don't do that." Draco giggled.

Cheeks glowing, he turned back to Hermione, who was still staring at him, trying to ignore the renewed throbbing in his lap as gracefully as possible. "Why... did you take the trouble of going through Draco's highly intelligent protection - Ouch!" Now, tentative fingertips had pinched his skin. He reached back and tried to grab Malfoy's hair.

"Harry. Hey! Listen!" She waited until the squabbling under the blanket stopped. "You have to get the hell away from here right now!"

"And why? I don't have any--"

"Ginny just told me. A student has been murdered. She was there. She even saw her body. It was horrible. There was blood everywhere -" Hermione interrupted herself, shivered, her eyes were moist. "Her friends said that she had a fight with you today and Professor McGonagall didn't care, but Professor Snape... Harry, he told her about his suspicions."

Harry stared at her. He knew what she would say. He had nothing to do with it, but the hair on the back of his neck had risen up like a hunch as she was recounting her story. He didn't have to ask who the victim was, because that day he only spoke to Alma Caldwell.

"Her neck was covered with bite marks and Professor Snape told her that you are probably a vampire. He, uh ...he said he wanted to confirm this, but the truth is he contacted the Ministry. Ginny had to sneak away under an excuse to tell me. She didn't want to believe that you were..."

On the edge of his consciousness, Harry noticed Draco slipping out of the blanket behind his shoulder with his head. "But _I'm_ the one who had the fight with Caldwell, I! Not Harry. Besides, they can't blame him; I was here, too, I can confirm that he was here, all the time." The voice was distorted by a wave of anxiety, and Harry wondered why. Nothing would happen to him. Not even if they arrested him, much would change for Draco. But he found himself hoping he was wrong; that it would drive Draco insane with grief.

He smiled dully. "Did she die of blood loss? Alma, I mean?" he asked softly.

Hermione looked at him as if he had lost his mind. "What difference does it make? Harry, you've gotta get out of here! Malfoy could testify for you if they offer you a trial, but they won't. The Ministry won't send Aurors after you!" Her voice had gone shrieking.

"I think he's in shock," whimpered Draco. Then he shook Harry's shoulder. "Can't you hear? You must leave. If what Granger says is true, they're not coming to arrest you!"

Harry was fully aware of his situation, and he certainly wasn't in shock. He looked at Hermione firmly. "Just a minute, Draco. Did she die of blood loss?"

With eyes wide open, Hermione shook her head. "Probably not. Her neck was broken, too" she whispered.

The information ran through him like a stream of foreboding and the nervous need to finally catch his murderer. "That was him," he suddenly hissed and Draco flinched again. "That boy! Who transformed me. He ... he broke my neck. And now hers."

Eyebrows up and with a pitifully contorted expression, Hermione looked at him. "She's not coming back, Harry. She's dead, not transformed. And if you don't leave, the Ministry Vampire Hunters will kill you. They'll... Oh, please, Harry. Just go. You can go - to America or anywhere else -"

When Harry jumped up without worrying about his nakedness, she fell silent and blushed. He turned around and looked down at Draco, who was slumped down under the big blanket. His eyes looked huge in the pale face as he looked back at Harry, and before that sight could tear something open in his chest, he turned away.

As he picked up his pants and slipped into them, he talked to no one in particular, to avoid thinking that he might never see Draco again. "I know she will never come back. It's just that maybe that's how he always kills." Though they hadn't spent that much time together without fighting, he would bleed to death inside from the splinters of his heart; it was already beginning to hurt. "Maybe I can... perhaps... vampire hunter. They would have chased me anyway, no matter what I did or didn't do." His voice trembled and he swallowed.

"Not if... If I had allayed Professor Snape's suspicions," said Draco and hiccupped. "I should have just kissed you in front of him. Then you would've blushed and everything would've been..."

Harry's hands shook as he pulled the shirt over his head. "I don't think he would have ever let go of his suspicions," he said muffled. With a blurred look, he searched the floor for his shoes. "He put you on to me for a reason. He didn't care what the result would be." Tears of rage ran from his eyes, dragging a cold trail on his cheeks.

One last time, Harry took a deep breath, soaking up the smell of Malfoy, hoping not to forget him, then turned back abruptly. With a sore throat he bent down to Draco, kissed his forehead, the wet cheeks, his mouth distorted into a deep sob. "You are beautiful," Harry whispered into the fragrant hair and then turned away without a glance.

Even Hermione, who had expected Harry to leave, had tears in her eyes. She handed him the cloak of invisibility and kept silent as if she didn't trust her voice.

As Harry disappeared under the cloak, his body seemed to shatter, just as his heart had before.


	12. Chapter 12

Harry could not remember ever having done anything that was so difficult for him. As he slipped through the door, Draco began to sob, as deeply as a child whose dreams had been shattered, and without any inhibition. He pulled the door shut and its outline disappeared in the stone, yet he felt the crying like a tremor penetrating his body.

Ignoring the pain in his chest, he hurried through the corridors that lay before him, shaded by the moonlight. Uncertain, he wondered what had happened to his ability to fall back on his intuition in dangerous situations. Maybe it had died with his magic or it had been the magic itself that had determined his path, because all this seemed to have dissolved.

Instead, what had taken its place overtaxed him. Though his hearing muffled his own clapping footsteps and carried dulled, heavy boot thunder from six pairs of feet to him he had no idea what floor they were on, let alone whether they were approaching or moving away from him. A nervous twitch ran down his cheek and he walked faster.

And then there were their muffled voices - or were they those of other people, students perhaps? No matter how hard he tried, he could not understand what they were saying exactly. There were too many. And he had no idea how to fight the hunters.

The voices became louder and a short time later he slipped around a corner and almost ran into the crowd of people at the entrance to the Gryffindor Tower. He stopped hastily and pressed himself against the wall. A faint Malfoy scent was still in the air, here at the spot where he had pressed Draco against the wall and drunk from him four weeks ago. _Not helpful_ , thought Harry and bit his teeth when not thirst or lust but a paralyzing sadness seemed to seep through his chest.

They were exclusively students. And apparently they did not know what was going on. Perplexed, they whispered to each other. Troubled not to breathe and not to make a sound, he watched as Ginny approached him. She looked very conspicuously to the side, but no one was paying attention to her. Then she leaned beside him.

"You're here, aren't you?" she whispered. "I saw you on the marauder's map." Her fingers nested on the leather loop of a shoulder bag. "They' re already in the tower. One of them is frisking it right now." In a gentle movement she let the strap on her arm slide down to her hand and the bag sank to the ground. "Here, take it. I have packed things that might be useful ... your wand and broom. The map, too."

With his eyes fixed on the students who still did not pay attention to Ginny, he reached for her hand and took the bag. "Thank you. I, uh... Did you see something strange on the map?" Harry whispered. He allowed himself a quick glance in Ginny's direction. She was pale as a corpse, her eyes wide open, and yet she seemed calm.

"When I came back from Alma's, I stared at the map. I thought someone might try to escape. And -"

"Please, Ginny. Don't make it so exciting. I have to hurry."

Ginny held her breath. "It was a guy named Alfred Bradshaw. He was just passing through the lobby when I checked. And it was full of people. I don't know how he did it without being stopped."

Stunned, Harry shook his head, although Ginny couldn't see him. "If this is the same guy I'm talking about, he's invisible. I must now..."

"Please take care of yourself," whispered Ginny without looking at him, then slowly walked back to the other students. For a moment, Harry looked at her before turning around and running off.

He had heard six hunters. When four of them searched the common rooms and dormitories, only two were in the hallways. The chance of meeting one was very small because the castle was huge and Harry was running faster than ever before. The world, consisting of connected stone blocks, suits of armor and portraits, flew by him blurredly. He was almost in the entrance hall when he stopped in a narrow corridor.

A large man was leaning against the wall, his eyes half closed. He had distinctive facial features and a very small nose for that, which he looked past bored, slightly cross-eyed. One of his arms lay on his huge belly, the other one he let hang down at his side, safe to quickly raise the wand as soon as something happened. Harry stayed just a second to assess him, for as he paused, he noticed the man's reaction to his presence.

Perhaps he had heard Harry's footsteps, although he had tried hard to muffle his running noises as the man's eyes widened. While he was still turning his head, he had pulled the wand and directed it to a point a few inches from Harry's neck.

There was a roaring in Harry's veins and his arms were raised in front of his chest without his conscious intervention, his fists half open. He concentrated on the situation, on sounds, smells. A rattling could be heard as the man turned and something slipped from his sleeve down into his broad hand. Harry's jaw tightened. Something silver shone through his fingers - maybe chains?

A pervasive smell of rotten eggs filled the air and drove tears into Harry's eyes. He shook involuntarily. The hunter took a step forward and seemed like someone who knew what he was doing. Torchlight flickered over him and illuminated the damp hair. And then he put away his wand. Harry frowned. Why would someone -?

His hand slipped from his cloak pocket over to the other and grabbed the end of the chain, then he pulled it taut. Another step, stalking like a predator. Harry wanted to turn away, take a different path, but he couldn't move. He looked down at himself. Black, thick mist was billowing around him from his feet.

He was trapped, one more time. He would probably die soon. To be caught and executed so close to his goal of leaving the castle was sad. Yet he felt nothing. He did not care, as if the black smoke had paralyzed him. By now it had reached chest height, but instead of waving weightlessly toward the ceiling, it seemed to climb up Harry's body, making him visible despite the cloak of invisibility. The hunter would take another step and put a noose from this chain around his neck and then it would be over. Maybe it was coated with something that could end him.

Finally the man took the step. A muffled noise sounded and for a moment the hunter's boot seemed to hang in the air above the ground. He cried out in frustration, inarticulate. Then he fell forward, past Harry and landed with his face on a worn out carpet. The chain slipped clanking into the passage.

Winking, Harry watched as he tried to stand up, but he couldn't, as if a heavy weight was on his back. "Damn it, how could you free yourself? Get off me," he cursed, his voice deep and rumbling. Several times he tried to raise his head to look at Harry, but the invisible assailant knocked it back to the ground each time and at some point the man gave up.

In the meantime, the cold fog that had settled on Harry's mind and stunned him had cleared. Although he would have liked nothing better than to confront this Alfred Bradshaw, an escape impulse hissed through his legs. He turned away and ran along the corridor. The angry cries of the man accompanied him. "Cowards! Two vampires against one wizard. Come back and fight like a man!"

He had reached the bottom of the stairs. "You should all be burned!" The mighty gates of the castle were open, cool night air was streaming in and if the ground was not covered with traps, he would move very fast. Apart from Professor McGonagall, who leaned pale and trembling against the banister to the dungeons and wiped her face incessantly, the hall was empty. "You _will_ burn, I swear to you!" McGonagall winced.

With a slight regret, Harry turned away from her and ran down the stairs. He could sense that she noticed him, that she looked after him. The instincts that had failed in the dangerous situation with the vampire hunter were now working.

When he reached the winged doors, he did not stop. His feet moved so quickly along the stone path that would lead him from the castle grounds to the wrought iron gate that he seemed to fly. The night air waved under his cloak up to his arms, in one cold blow after another, as if his pace alone were compressing it into an ice barrier that he had to break through with every step he took, while he pulled the shoulder bag behind like a flag.

The gates stood open wide. A trap could lie there as well, but if he didn't risk it, they would find him eventually, so he slowed down and slipped through. A few steps further, he would leave the magical, invisible protective dome that surrounded Hogwarts and the grounds, and then he would be free.

"Harry? Is that you?" Kingsley's tall figure peeled from the shadows of the forbidden forest. He shuddered and fished a branch from his shoulder as he looked around searching.

He could just keep going - Kingsley would not be able to stop him. If Harry didn't give away his position and just stormed forward, he would put distance between them so quickly that not even a well aimed curse could reach him.

"I would like to apologize for my misjudgment. I was under a lot of pressure and thought it would be best for everyone to avoid panic. That is why I did not inform you. And you..." His dark face distorted as if he were in great pain. "Now you've died because of my stupidity and... transformed. I regret that. The vaccine should have prevented it, but -"

"So it would have been okay for you if I had lost all my magic powers," yapped Harry and a bitter taste spread in his mouth.

Kingsley exhaled in relief and looked at his condensed breath for a moment. "So it really is you. That is good." He shivered. "Listen, it's not like it was okay. However... A lesser evil, that is. You being a vampire, that's... The worst attack on the magical society in a long, long time, and I'm not just saying that as a minister. I didn't want to believe it when I heard earlier that..."

Anger coursing through Harry's veins. "So you knew about this side effect. It's not like you overlooked it? Just didn't give it any more thought?"

Kingsley flinched, almost imperceptibly. "Yes, I knew about it. Something like this doesn't slip through the Depart-" His voice faded into the night. Harry's hands clenched in fists. "Something like that doesn't pass unnoticed by the Ministry." He spoke more slowly, as if he were weighing his words carefully. Harry had not failed to notice how he had corrected himself. "There was not enough time to block the side effects. The vaccine had to be distributed quickly. You noticed the reporting, the many deaths -"

"They transform anyway," rumbled Harry. "You've gained nothing by it except that they're alive - of course they're lost for your society anyway. And now you've come to have me assassinated."

"No. You got that wrong. We want to catch the other vampire. The one who turned you. He's responsible for all this." Uncomfortable, Kingsley raised his shoulders. "It is he who is attacking our society. You are only one of his victims, I would never think -"

Suspiciously, Harry watched his every move. There was something disconcerting in the way he moved his mouth, the way he looked around and wrestled his hands. "You were a really good auror," Harry said in a neutral tone. "But you suck as a minister. You of all people should know that nothing protects people better than the truth."

Kingsley seemed to relax. A mild smile settled on his features. "Yes, that might even be true. But as Auror I had far less responsibility." He took a step closer. "I'm afraid I was blinded by my duties."

Harry remembered the summer. He had criticized Kingsley before, but by that time he had gone off his guard in an unpleasant way and had snarled at Harry. Now he seemed downright relieved.

Distrustful, Harry took an inaudible step backwards.

"You know that wizards can't become vampires. Therefore, you must forgive me for asking. Are you a _true_ vampire? Does the sunlight hurt your skin?" Kingsley asked. A rough tone ran through the question and Harry swallowed.

He thought of the tingling warm light of the evening, of red, heated skin on his cheeks, of screwing with Draco Malfoy, who had often forgotten that Harry was a vampire at all, and a sting went through his chest. Once again, his vision blurred into tears, but he shook his head. "Yes, I am," he lied.

Loud shouts came over from the castle grounds. Kingsley, who had turned to them, listened briefly. "I fear that my presence will be required." He turned to Harry again. "Please, go to the Shrieking Shack. I will tell no one you are there. Better leave this cloak of invisibility on. We'll come back for you when everything's settled here."

"Okay. But how do I get past the Whomping Willow?" Harry asked slowly. He was so tense that he thought he felt his heart pounding between his ribs.

Kingsley turned his head to the side again. "You'll be fine. Vampires have an advantage." He smiled a half-smile, ghostly illuminated by the light of his wand. "They're fast." Then he turned around without another word.

With a dull throb in his ears, Harry watched as he ran through the gate and hurried over the castle grounds, shining silvery in the moonlight. He would like to trust Kingsley.

Reluctantly, he took another step towards the border.

It would be easy to trust him, wait for him in the Shrieking Shack and - and then what? Another step backwards. As his back broke through the school's protective spell, a tingling sensation slipped over his skin. _We'll come back for you_.

Kingsley didn't want to tell anyone. He wanted to protect Harry from his own vampire hunters. At least that's what he said.

When Harry took another step backwards, he lost sight of the tall man he had trusted with his life not so long ago.

_We'll_ come back for you.

He wanted to trust Kingsley. But it was impossible.

Without allowing himself a long look at his former home, he turned his back on it. He decided to follow the long imprinted traces of the carriage wheels for a while. At the station he would pick up the pace and see if he had enough strength to run all the way to London. Home. To Kreacher. Maybe he could warn him and send him to Hogwarts before the hunters came. He did not believe that even one of Kingsley's words could be true. They _would_ look for him, he thought bitterly.

Outside the protective spell, the world sounded different. Owls were hooting out of the shadows of the forest, now and then a branch cracked, sometimes there was a scratching on the forest floor. It seemed threatening, and Harry flinched every time. He wondered if he would ever get used to it and tried not to concentrate on the noises anymore. And then he heard a soft scurrying, almost like a stalking step, and stopped.

Another creaking. He tensed his muscles.

"I really thought you were going into that shack," said a dark, scratchy voice behind him, and the whiff of a breath sprayed down his neck, a feeling he remembered well, for he had felt it every day on summer break, believing he was gradually going crazy. "I mean, do what the great ministry man demands of a lamb like you."

With his stomach clenched in an unhealthy mixture of anger, curiosity and bitter satisfaction, Harry turned around. No one seemed to be there. He smiled strained. "Alfred Bradshaw, isn't it? Show yourself."

"How did you know my name?"

"Intuition. Now make yourself visible at last," growled Harry and bit his lower lip. He took a deep breath. A slightly musty odor came from the direction he was looking, a step away. Earthy, stale, somewhat metallic. Underneath was a fine-sour note like after a thunderstorm. Irritated, he pulled his eyebrows together.

"I cannot. I can't control it." A short pause. "We'd better get off the street. If I become visible again, they might find me."

Harry snorted and folded his arms across his chest. "Why should I care?"

"I don't give a damn if you care. But I'm going now."

His footsteps were now clearly audible to Harry. They moved away towards the forest. As Harry followed the sound, he wondered why the fear was racing through his veins and whether it would not be better to just run.

* * *

The forest became thicker and more dense the deeper they went. Sounds were swallowed up by the trees, Alfred's footsteps muffled by the deep carpet of leaves. Although it was already November, vivid green foliage arched over them like a dome. Harry looked back. He saw nothing but trees, wide and narrow, and dark shadows between them. They had long since left the edge of the forest behind.

Alfred stopped at a fallen tree trunk. Harry sat down on the gnarled bark. He laid his face in his hands, numb to the emotions that were rushing inside him. What had happened that day would have driven him insane under other circumstances.

"I have many questions," Harry began in a harsh voice, "why have you persecuted me, for months, only to transform me now? You even ran away afterwards. And you killed how many people? Sixty-two?" He paused and swallowed dry. His fingers ran through his long hair, which after that day was messier than ever before. "Then there was Alma. Why all this?"

"You still sound like a sheep," Alfred etched. Harry flinched. "I was really disappointed that you didn't do any of the things I expected. Why did I turn you? Just imagine what it would have been like if students and teachers alike had been slaughtered by the great fallen hero. That's what you should have done."

A jolt went through Harry's stomach and a nausea that had nothing to do with his physical condition poured through him. "You wanted me to -" He clenched his hands into fists. "You murdered me and condemned me to this existence so I could _kill my friends_?"

A laugh rang out, bright and guileless like a child's. "So, if I was going after your friends, I'd better have done it myself right away. I was more concerned with the outside. 'Oh, Potter the Savior just kills everyone.' That would have been _marvellous_. How pleasurable it would have been to flip through the newspapers. Everyone would have been so terribly affected. And absolutely hypocritical, of course." He paused and gave Harry time to register the revulsion that was eating through his veins like acid, like a physical pain. " _We never thought he would do such a thing. He was always such a good boy_ ," he shouted with a shrill tone.

"Pleasurable? You're just sick!", growled Harry and jumped up. He did not know what he was about to do, for Bradshaw was still invisible. He had no hopes of hitting him with his fists. Still, he ran in the direction he thought the guy might stand.

"You don't want to fight with me, believe me," Alfred's suddenly serious voice in Harry's back said.

The cloak of invisibility hindered Harry's movements as he turned and struck for the disembodied voice. Although his ankles actually hit something, an arm maybe, the blow was not hard enough. Even before Harry could swing a second time, invisible hands grabbed his forearm. "Let me go," Harry yelled, trying to free himself, then he swung out with his other hand and struck in the air.

"You have a talent for getting yourself into these situations," growled Alfred in his face, then ripped the cloak of invisibility off his head. "What a pity. When you stunned yourself with your own magic, I thought you just didn't know any better. Now I must correct myself. You're an imbecile."

After he had become visible again and lost his only advantage, Harry felt naked. He knew that it would be better to stop fighting and get out of here. How could he fight without magic against an invisible, more experienced opponent? Once more he tried to pull his arm out of the vampire's grip, but he was stuck as if he was trapped by stone.

A sigh stroked his cheeks and Harry turned his face away as a terrible feeling of helplessness paralyzed him. "My first project, failed. This is a real tragedy. What will I do with you now, waste of my blood?"

Invisible fingertips lay on his cheekbones, groping, tenderly almost, and drew a cold trail down his cheek to the corner of Harry's mouth. In disbelief, he blinked. _He is not going to_ -? Harry gritted his teeth and tried not to let it show how nameless horror flooded through his limbs.

"I'll give you some advice, Harry Potter," Bradshaw whispered in his ear. Hair tickled Harry's cheek. "Change your perspective. When I ended your miserable life in which you longed for war every damn day without being strong enough to start one, I gave you opportunities. No matter who or what you were, you're a predator now. And predators who fear their prey... Lose more than their lives."

"It may look like fear to you," croaked Harry and looked up, though he could not see Alfred. "But love is strength. It's something people like you have never understood."

" _People like me_!" cried Alfred, and his voice seemed to explode in Harry's ears. He flinched. "You know _nothing_ about me. And what your kind have done to me, these fine people with their fine morals, you cannot even imagine. But," he said, and Harry suddenly came up with frightening certainty that his tone of voice sounded lusty, "I will show you."

Then sharp teeth sank into Harry's neck, fingers clawed his hair, drawing him closer to strange lips, a strange tongue massaging his skin, and his arm clapped uselessly on his hip. He could not move. A stabbing, ramified pain ran through his body, all the way from his feet to the spot on his throat from which all that seemed to constitute him was pouring out, leaving nothing but shame bubbling in his stomach.

"You don't have much of that," Bradshaw murmured against his neck and licked once more over Harry's aching skin before pushing him away. Harry staggered, but was able to hold himself upright despite the shaking that went through his legs. "This was your first warning, Harry Potter."

Light, prancing footsteps receded and each and every one of them left a hatred in Harry's veins such as he had never felt before, intensified by the throbbing wound on his neck. His mouth distorted as his teeth grew and pierced through the skin on his lip, for the first time not out of lust for blood, but out of the sheer necessity of tearing flesh.

He staggered after Alfred, but when he put his foot on the ground, he dropped. Only a fluttering moment later, Harry was enveloped in a pitch blackness.


	13. Chapter 13

It took quite a while until Draco's dry sobs faded. His eyes smarted. He moistened the brittle lips with his tongue, then he looked numbly over to the door in front of which Hermione Granger was still standing, embarrassed and looking down.

"What are you still doing here, Granger?" he asked soundlessly and uttered a sigh that echoed deep in his chest and seemed to relax her.

She raised her hands in a helpless gesture in front of her chest and grimaced. Draco thought that if she were a Slytherin who would take every opportunity for revenge, she would have had an easy time with him at that moment, after all he had done to her and her friends. In this case, she would certainly have made use of such an opportunity. He tried to push back the latent disgust he felt towards her so that it wouldn't show up on his face.

"I... I wonder why you are snivelling so much," she said slowly, as if the same thought had just occurred to her. "Did you care much for Alma Caldwell? I mean, was she -"

Draco stared at her. "Me and Alma? Didn't you realize that she loved to throw herself at guys like Professor Snape?" he asked incredulously, as if that would explain everything, and then specified: "I never wanted to be with her and I certainly don't sob over her." Disgusted, he screwed up his nose.

"Then it is because Harry had to go. I just don't understand how that could happen," she pointed to the blanket and the redness crept back into her face, "Why were you naked - or no, don't say it loud. Merlin, how could everything escalate like this...?"

Shivering, Draco pulled the blanket closer without letting Granger out of his sight. If he continued to talk to her, he would drag what his father called the reputation of his venerable family into the abyss. It would be far worse than loving Harry Potter from afar, perhaps even worse than sleeping with him. It would be contemptuous of tradition.

Draco smiled joylessly and wrapped the blanket tighter around his chest. "It's not just because he had to go. The Ministry is trying to _kill_ him and he can't even cast a spell. How could he fight them?" he mumbled. A bitter taste spread in his mouth. "They want to kill him now that they have no use for him anymore."

Both remained silent. The wind whistled through a broken window pane somewhere nearby. Draco, who could no longer stand Granger's staring gaze, looked at the bare stone floor.

"So you admired him?" she asked after a while. "While you hated him because he wouldn't be your friend?"

In surprise, Draco looked up. "Right," he said simply, but his stomach lurched in joy. Every time his parents had misplaced him, he would have liked to correct them in an angry roar, and then Granger came and _saw_ him. "There is only one thing you are wrong about: I did not admire him. I loved him."

With a perverse delight, Draco watched as Granger blinked in disbelief and shook her head so that her thick hair whipped against her neck. Eventually, understanding became apparent on her pale face.

"The first blood," she said, startled. "I understand. That's why you took his... took advantage of his condition."

"Took advantage?" Draco repeated with a disgusted tone in his voice. "Perhaps it could have been called that if he wasn't already decomposing. The way you say it, it sounds like my commitment was optional. And besides, if I hadn't protect myself with a spell, he might have sucked me dry completely."

"So, you didn't plan for you, of all people, to be the one to form a special bond with Harry by surviving his bite? I mean, you could have just told Professor McGonagall. There's blood donation, you know?"

Confused, he frowned. "Blood donation? You just made that up, didn't you?" He felt a silly laugh bubbling out of his stomach and suppressed it. "This is perhaps something like your initiative for house-elf rights. Donations for vampires. Well, they really don't need such a thing."

Her eyes narrowed. "You gave your blood to Harry, either. I just don't think it was without alternative like you make it out to be."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Do you always argue so much about things that are already done? It just doesn't matter. He drank my blood. We're connected. I slept with Harry Potter." He bit his lips so he wouldn't utter that childish ' _and you didn't_!' that lay on his tongue. Still he grinned as Granger blushed again.

"And he did it ... voluntarily?" Astonished, Draco watched as her intimidated manner suddenly fell away from her, probably because she was approaching the subject she really had stayed for. Suddenly, she looked at him with concentration, the muscles in her arms tense, as if she was preparing to attack him if he gave a wrong answer. Perhaps he might have believed himself capable of the same thing if he had been in her position - yet he shuddered under the echo of her question.

"I could re-enact the scene for you," he replied feignedly offended. "However, I'll have to play Harry; I don't think you could imitate his greedy jump on me." He paused briefly and enjoyed the implication of his allusion. "But if you play me, I would also have a hard time doing that."

"It is no wonder Harry didn't want to be friends with you when you were not yet able to entice him with your blood," she hissed furiously. "You are unbearable."

"So are you. At least if you had slept with him, I wouldn't have accused you of having abused him. I probably would rather have doubted his mental state," he said cheerfully.

Granger's expression darkened. "Oh, believe me, so do I. I'm trying to figure out what Harry was thinking."

"I suppose you also think an ideal relationship is about _harmony_." Draco deliberately stressed that last word, as if he was naming something disgusting, and grimaced. "I can already see it. You and Weasley nestled in those ridiculous sweaters, sharing a cup of hot chocolate. And then cuddled up in bed together like siblings. How _exciting_. When Harry turns to me, I would assume, in your place, that he is looking for drama, not contentment."

"And if I were you, I wouldn't get my hopes up too high. He was very happy with Ginny, and now that she knows what's wrong with him, you don't stand a chance." Although her tone sounded triumphant in an irritating way, she gave him a pitiful look.

Draco laughed out loud. "But for the supposed fact that I compete with her, Weasley is rarely seen with Harry." With sharpness in his voice, he added, "You can't make me insecure. He decides whom he meets. If you don't want to admit it, then go ahead, open a self-help group with Weasley, but leave me alone with it."

He was expecting a lot: That she would attack him, maybe even curse him; that she would snarl at him or run away, but not that she would pull the wand and conduct his clothes to him. However, she did not let them land gently; his shoes slammed against his forehead and she let his underpants flutter into his face. Then she smiled enigmatically and turned her back on him. "Put some clothes on at last," she snapped.

Perplexed, he obeyed, stood up and slipped into his clothes.

"So you love him. Therefore you share your blood with him," she said softly against the stone wall. "That is ... romantic in an uncanny way."

"My specialty," Draco croaked, intertwining his fingers in the hem of his shirt. He shivered in the sudden cold. But most of all, he had realized that Harry would either starve or drink from someone else while he was on the run. Flooded with surging despair, he gritted his teeth. Blinking, he stared to the ground in an attempt to push back the tears that obscured his vision.

"How long have you felt like this?" she asked soundlessly. Draco looked up. Apparently, Granger hadn't bothered much about whether he had finished dressing, for she had turned around without asking and looked at him with a watchful eye. "I mean, you had a strange way of showing it. When did your feelings for Harry change?"

"They haven't," he replied in a harsh voice. "They may have intensified from time to time, but they haven't changed."

Her eyes widened.

"My father believed that Harry must be a powerful dark wizard if he was to survive the Killing Curse and instructed me to befriend him. So in preparation I studied some books written about him, but there was only general information. And then I saw him and knew that he was better than everything thought and said about him. I think that was the moment."

With a nostalgic feeling in his chest, Draco remembered the nights he had lain awake before the start of the first year of school, imagining what it would be like to have a real friend and how unbeatable they would be together. He shook his head and sighed.

"I would never have thought that you would ... be like this." She wrapped a strand of hair around one of her fingers, giving her a nervous look. "Or that you would ever tell me this. You were always so terrible -"

"Jealous. I was jealous," Draco finished her sentence.

"I didn't mean to say that."

Draco grinned. "But it's better than cranky, annoying, obnoxious or things like that."

Granger laughed and looked much younger for a short moment, but then the shadows returned to their expression. "Harry was a great wizard and an intuitive fighter, but without magic... I don't know if he really has a chance. I am worried that he will not be able to escape. Or that they already caught him."

"I'm worried too." Draco swallowed dryly and raised his shoulders uneasily. "Besides, I don't understand why they're not interrogating him. At least show him the respect of finding out if he did it."

"That's right." Granger pulled her eyebrows together. "But I don't think Alma Caldwell's death is the reason they're treating him this way. That's the hook at best. There must be something else," she said gloomily. "It's just _unbelievable_. Kingsley Shacklebolt is the minister and he just lets it happen."

"He's only a ministerial man," said Draco, as if that would explain everything. "Perhaps we should take a look at the Great Hall. If they haven't caught him yet, the Hunters are probably still in the castle." As her expression wore off, he added, "I'm sure we won't have any trouble about it tonight. I suspect the Vampire Hunters will search everything and nobody will sleep anyway."

"Fine," Granger said gruffly. "After you, Malfoy."

* * *

It was a strange feeling to walk through the castle with Hermione Granger, as if they had been friends in secret for a while and had decided to lay their cards on the table because of current events. In astonishment, he looked to the side, down at her thick, brown hair that bulged in her fast walk and wondered amusedly how it could have come to this. He considered that Harry would be pleased to hear that he had found a far less invasive way to plunge his parents into social despair and decided to tell him as soon as he got the chance. _If_ he got it.

His suspicion, in any case, was proven correct. The closer they got to the entrance hall, the more students they met in the corridors. In a small group standing in a hallway and chatting gabblingly, he could even make out Professor Flitwick, who compensated for his short stature by participating in the rumors in a particularly squeaky voice full of excitement. Relieved, Draco breathed out. If Harry had been captured, word would have spread quickly.

Granger stopped on the large staircase leading to the Entrance Hall and Draco rolled his eyes in annoyance. Apparently Norman Peck, a complete idiot from Hufflepuff, had forgotten to jump one of the disappearing steps and was now stuck with a deeply unhappy face, one leg in the stairs while the other was twisted on the step below him. It looked very painful.

"Granger, now hurry up," Draco snorted and watched with satisfaction as Peck flinched instead of taking the hand offered to him.

Granger spontaneously grabbed Peck's hands and tried to help him up. However, it was not easy for her, because he didn't help. He still stared at Draco as if he had just turned into a dementor.

"If you help him now, he'll be stuck in another step in two minutes anyway," said Draco, watching her in her fruitless efforts. He shook his head. Not even when Harry was in great danger did she cease to force her help on all sorts of sad creatures for even a moment.

"Someone else will get him out in two minutes," she hissed with clenched teeth and pulled Peck's arms harder. A few students on the stairs laughed.

"Ouch," Peck whined and sobbed, his round face reddened. He reminded Draco of Longbottom before his amazing transformation into a fighter.

"Now get up already," Granger gasped, but then let go of his arms and wiped her forehead.

"I don't want to! Really," he whimpered in a quivering voice.

Draco moaned. "When you're done scaring the children, let's finally go," he said and turned around without waiting for an answer.

"I am seventeen!" cried Peck in Draco's back. "Besides, I am not afraid."

When Granger had finally arrived next to him, he went down the stairs first. He snorted irritatedly. "Really, he is seventeen? I wouldn't have thought so. But it's also impressive that you managed to let him hang. Don't you already have withdrawal symptoms because you haven't imposed your will on anyone for at least two hours?" He skillfully skipped the last trick step before solid ground.

"Are you always so prissy when something doesn't go as fast as you'd like it to?" Granger etched behind him.

He turned around and watched as she inelegantly jumped to the floor of the Entrance Hall. "Yes," he replied unconcernedly.

Here, too, the students stood together in small groups. Near the dungeons, Alma's friends were leaning against the wall, two of them crying, while the third, Cadence McLaughlin, combed her blonde curls with her fingers and seemed almost bored, as if she hadn't yet realized what had happened. Or she really didn't care.

Draco remembered her; she had asked him for a date two years ago in a nasal tone of voice. He wondered on the edge what a girl who overlooked her best friend's death like that would have expected from a boy like him and wrinkled his nose.

"There's Professor McGonagall," Granger whispered and tugged at Draco's sleeve. She pointed out into the night towards the open wing doors of the hall to a single figure that was barely visible in the darkness. She seemed to shiver and had turned her back to them, as if waiting for someone.

"She will surely -" Granger interrupted herself as the shapeless figure of a big, fat man pushed past McGonagall into the light of the hall. He shook his greasy head and looked around, and as his gaze fell in their direction, he froze. His small, piercing eyes widened and a moment later he came towards them.

Draco swallowed. If this was one of the Ministry's Vampire Hunters, he could only hope that Harry had long since arrived in another country - regardless of whether they would ever see each other again. There was something about him that reminded him of a sadistic Death Eater. Not crazy enough for a Bellatrix Lestrange, but his controlled attitude made him seem much more dangerous.

"Well, well," he said softly as he approached Granger. "I suppose we have a lot to talk about, don't we? Let's have a nice chat in a familiar atmosphere." He didn't seem like he had ever had a nice chat in his life, but Draco said nothing. He stared mesmerized at a squishy red spot on the man's forehead.

"You have nothing to discuss with Miss Granger," someone hissed in his back and Draco's heart took a little jump as the man turned. He recognized McGonagall who had been building up behind him. The man was so tall that Draco had overlooked her approaching. "Neither is she a vampire, nor was she in contact with one. I must ask you and your entourage to leave at once." She shot a poisonous look up. "Apparently, both vampires were able to escape. You have no business here."

"Both vampires? Listen, lady," he pronounced the title as if it were a profanity, "it may be that two of them attacked me, maybe not. But my official mission is to find Harry Potter and to neutralize him in every possible way if he doesn't cooperate. He is now charged with sixty-three murders and if he has committed only half of them, then any action is justified." He spoke softly and smiled, but his eyes remained cold and rigid.

Nervously, Draco scratched his cheek. They really wanted to kill Harry, not only for killing Alma, but for the murders of all those other witches and wizards that had been committed while he was still human. It was so unfair that even Draco couldn't find any words.

"It _may be_ that there were two vampires? Please," hissed Professor McGonagall. Her witch's hat was slipping on her head, and she suddenly seemed so angry at Draco that he swallowed and had to remember that she was on their side. "The girl's friends testified that a brown-haired boy appeared before them out of nowhere and took the victim with him. How do you explain this?"

The man touched his crown of hair in a thoughtful, slow movement, as if it were a good luck charm, then he laughed panting. "This statement will be noted in the records with the utmost reservation," he said gently. "It is now quite obvious that these girls are overwrought and are also afraid to incriminate Potter, precisely _because_ he is the real murderer."

Draco could feel Granger getting restless beside him. He hoped she would keep her mouth shut.

"Harry Potter and a _murderer_? That's ridiculous," cried McGonagall loudly, so that some of the students around them became aware and listened. "So the ministry is again operating on the basis of assumptions, rumors and hearsay. Then you would consider the murder of another innocent man, vampire or not? Leave this school _at once_."

A many-voiced whispering picked up around her and the man glanced hastily around the students. Red spots formed on his neck and he was sweating profusely, making it look like he had taken a bath in the lake. Confused, Draco frowned. If this was indeed an executor of the ministry, he should not care that other people noticed his actions.

"Madam, that's impossible. If you could keep your voice down, please? My official order is to kill a vampire, and I will kill one, no matter what you -"

"Then you will be pleased to hear that Potter isn't a vampire," said a dark voice beside them. Draco's heart stopped for a short moment. He took a deep breath, and when he was sure his features wouldn't reveal anything, he turned around.

Snape stood, rigid like an oak, in the midst of all the students and, despite the fact that he had leaned heavily on his cane, he didn't appear the least bit weakened. He wrinkled his long nose contemptuously and let his bored look rest on the scenery in front of him.

"You called for us," hissed the man accusingly. "You can't expect us to just leave without protecting the magical society, can you?"

"I have informed the Ministry of the death of Alma Caldwell - and of my suspicion that a vampire is responsible," he said calmly. "In addition to my suspicion that he had transformed Potter, however, I also noted that he had long since left the castle. I am sure the Ministry is aware of the true identity of the attacker. There's no reason to execute more people than absolutely necessary."

"However, my mission now is to get Potter out of the way. So you see, Snape, that it _is_ necessary," the man whispered exaggeratedly.

Severus' cheeks turned pink, but beyond that he did not show that he was annoyed. "Could I see your permission then? As far as I know, even the Ministry requires one for the use of force."

The man laughed and seemed honestly amused. "You can take it from the recently passed laws according the Persecution of Dangerous Non-Wizard Part-Humans. We are permitted to execute any vampire being that threatens the life of one or more witches or wizards - at any time."

"Potter is _human_ ," Severus said darkly. His face had turned into a glowing hate, an expression Draco had never seen on him before. "Now, go."

"Your lack of cooperation in protecting your students will be reported. It will be our great pleasure to see the school closed." The man made the threat with obvious relish and licked his lips. Draco felt his stomach begin to bubble with sudden nausea.

"That is not for _you_ to decide," McGonagall spat with red cheeks and watched as the man put his fingers in his mouth and whistled piercingly before turning away. Another Hunter in a dark blue cloak peeled himself out of the crowd and slowly walked out with him.

"It looks as if big problems are coming our way, Severus," McGonagall said softly in the overall murmur. Apparently, she had forgotten that Draco was still there, along with Granger.

"They're already here," Severus sputtered angrily and the quiet mask fell off him. He turned to Draco. "It is thanks to your lies that this brat died. I have given you a very basic assignment!"

A small spark of rage ran through Draco's veins. "Yes, and if you hadn't seemed so eager to make Harry's life a living hell, I might have told the truth," he growled softly, forgetting any form.

Severus clipped. "Harry?," he asked quietly. "What have I been missing?"

Draco had only a split second to come to his senses, but he knew by now that he couldn't have resisted. Severus broke through his mind with an unspoken legilimentic spell and rummaged through his memories. Draco's cheeks burned when the image of Harry lying naked beside him and smiling at him appeared in his mind's eye, but he did not try to repress Severus. Driven by a strange pride and the desire to show him once and for all that he was wrong in his revulsion, he let it happen.

"That explains everything, of course," Severus yapped. "Follow me." His face was covered with a burning redness, but the corners of his mouth sank down. He turned away, as if he couldn't bear to look at Draco, and took a few steps towards the winged doors.

Draco caught up with him. His cheeks were burning and the strong contrast to the cold air made him tremble. "Where are we going? If you're going to tell my father, just let me know first."

"I have no intention of pronouncing _it_ ," Severus hissed through his teeth. As he stepped out into the night, his pale face seemed to glow in the darkness. "I will bring you to him."

For a moment, Draco stopped, unable to formulate an answer or move on, as a warm feeling dripped from his chest into his belly, mixing with cold fear in an unpleasant way. He glanced at Severus, who walked a few steps further before he stopped and turned to Draco. Tediously controlled, he tapped around on his walking cane with his long fingers. At the abandoned castle grounds, his white face made him look like a particularly grumpy ghost.

"But - why is he still there? He should be long gone. Did the Ministry get him?", he stammered.

Severus raised an eyebrow and leaned on his cane. "If that were so, would I chase you through the night?" he asked with a sour tone of voice. "If we don't move him, the Hunters will get him soon, though. Since magic is ineffective against vampires, you will have the pleasure of pulling him all the way up to the castle." Inappropriately, he then smiled as if the thought would amuse him. Draco snorted. Of course it did.

With a numb feeling in his stomach, Draco went on. If they had to move him, did that mean he couldn't go alone? Although he was terribly afraid of the answer, he asked the question that was burning on his tongue before he could make a conscious decision. "Is he still alive?"

"He is undead."

Despite the fact that the ground felt strangely uneven on his weak legs, Draco rolled his eyes and an overexcited laugh pressed up his gullet and dripped from his mouth, dry with fear. "Yes, but is he still? Undead?"

"Sure. He lies peacefully decomposing and stinking in the woods, with a wound on his neck that doesn't seem to heal, but apart from that he's doing fine," Severus said poisonously. "This is the very last time I care that someone saves his damn undead life."

Draco walked faster, driven by his rapidly thumping heart, which fluttered like a bird in a cage, forbidding himself any thought of what would happen to him if Harry didn't make it. His blood would save him, for sure - that is what the connection between them would ensure. He wouldn't lose him so soon after he won him. He couldn't.

But when they reached the clearing, it lay abandoned before them. Severus leaned his walking cane against an overturned tree trunk and, with his wand drawn, walked down the glade, searching the ground for traces. Draco's legs gave way and his knees landed on a soft bed of pine needles.

"Someone found him. Let's hope it was the centaurs," Severus said grimly.

As if stunned, Draco stared at a fist-sized stain that shimmered dark red on the forest floor in the warm glow of the wand's light. His chest suddenly felt as empty as the clearing.


	14. Chapter 14

When Harry came to his senses and took a desperate breath, gasping as if he had just surfaced from the deep sea, the musty stench hit him like a slap on the head. At that moment, he cursed himself for his human need to catch his breath, for a foul odor surrounded him, evoking a memory of a nightmare he would rather have forgotten. Apart from that, it worried him that he was obviously no longer lying in the woods. He opened his eyes and stared into impenetrable darkness.

A soft dribble, almost timidly, reached his ear and when he straightened up, it felt like he was lying on a hard surface. His fingertips sensed cold, smooth stone, in some places covered with a coarse meshed layer, which could be wiped aside easily, as if a net of soft material was lying on the ground. To his left they hit an edge and the floor merged seamlessly into a wall. It felt as if the foundation had been hewn directly from stone.

Filled with a deep calmness, which surprised him in regard to his situation, he concentrated his hearing on the distant drop. It sounded as if it was just another room away and was carried to him through a narrow corridor. Harry smiled without feeling any real joy in his cold chest as he realized that he could now make out distances. If only he had been able to do so at Hogwarts!

Hogwarts. Harry sighed deeply. Gradually, the memory returned of what had happened to him before he woke upin that empty room. His flight, caused by Alfred Bradshaw's murder of Alma Caldwell and the subsequent attack on him, the theft of Draco's blood -

A long, tormented scream interrupted his thoughts and drove goose bumps on Harry's neck. Before he could make up his mind, he jumped to his feet and began patting the wall with his hands, looking for a door. Whatever or whoever was screaming was in agony, and it pierced through him like glowing needles. Though Harry's heart stood still and had probably dried up long ago, a current of fear and tension coursed down his veins, as if the mere necessity for a choice of fight or flight was enough to bring him back to life.

At last he found a small crack through which a gush of cool, moldy air blew as he began to nestle on it, and then felt the handle of a door. As his fingertips touched the warped wood, a single black candle lit up next to him in a niche in the wall. Harry froze for a second and blinked into the faint flickering orange light that imprinted dark circles in his vision, blinding him as if he was looking directly into the sun. Then the scream died down, leaving a roaring silence.

The goose bumps had spread from his neck like a rash and now covered his arms. Once again he concentrated his hearing. Dribbling, interrupted by an absurdly obnoxious, tearing sound. Then a loud munch.

Harry swallowed and closed his eyes, trying to calm down by imagining Draco, the crooked grin, the moaning. All this in the faint hope that it would make him forget the association, but it was in vain. The idea had settled in him that there, one room further on, a man was killed and devoured.

Hesitantly, he took a step back from the door, then another. In the past he would certainly have reached out for the door handle and pressed it down without hesitation, without pausing, but now the dull shimmer of the black metal seemed to mock him. He would have rushed into that other room and attacked what was cowering in the shadows there. No matter if he could have died in the process or not.

He wondered if the terrible things that had happened to him were holding him back or if it was the simple lack of interest that was slowly diluting his fear. Perhaps the fact that he had become a creature of shadow himself held him back.

His elbows hit the wall in his back and he leaned against it, his eyes still closed. Meanwhile, the current in his veins had dried up, the fear had trickled away, numbed his feelings and thoughts. He opened his eyes and looked around as if he could distract himself in this way.

Now, bathed in flickering light, something about the room seemed vaguely familiar to him. The floor was covered with milky white tiles, some of which were partially obscured by a black layer of dust. The joints seemed to blur when he looked at them longer, as if they were made of an extremely unstable material. Small grains of dust danced before his eyes in candlelight. Once again he took a deep breath. This time he perceived a different smell under the prevailing mold, which had previously been drowned out by his confusion. It smelled foul, like sulfur.

The sound of shuffling footsteps divided his thoughts and Harry held his breath tense. They stopped at the door, and when the handle was pushed down, he prepared himself inwardly to find out what had torn the human apart after all. He thought of that nightmare in which the tall figure of female proportions had bitten through his chest and wondered if his nerves were playing a trick on him or if he could actually be in that temple.

* * *

When the door opened creakily, a streak of bright light entered the room and a tall, skinny man slipped inside. He glanced around briefly, his eyebrows narrowing and the wrinkles on his forehead deepening, but then he looked Harry in the eyes and smiled friendly. Harry's gaze glided mistrustfully down the clean, mauve cloak he was wearing, and, filled with an unpleasant premonition, he pushed his back against the wall.

"There is no reason to be afraid," said the old man croaking. "Well, at least not for you, Harry Potter. However, I can understand the doubts you must have. This is really not the place I would have chosen to shelter you. Throwing you, of all people, into our vampire dungeon lacks all courtesy." His hand, covered in age spots, reached into the unobtrusive breast pocket of the cloak and pulled something out of it. "We will find you a better room."

A hissing sound came from Harry's mouth and his eyes focused on the hand without hesitation. The stone under his fingertips crunched as he prepared to attack the man with his fists if necessary, but only a second later he realized that it was just his glasses. Trembling, the old man placed them on his thick nose, which seemed unsuitable for his slender head.

"Don't worry, I just want to take a closer look at you. My eyesight has deteriorated, I'm afraid." Once again he smiled, presumably in an effort to be reassuring. His brown eyes blinked attentively, albeit friendly.

Harry did not relax. "Where am I, exactly?" he rumbled. "And what was that scream?"

The smile on the man's face faded and left the cheeks drooping as if it had worn them out. "You heard it?" He shook his head, the gray wreath of hair on his almost bald skull waving in a undulating motion, and sighed, "You are in a basement room of my house, which has been specially adapted to capture vampires. This," he let his hand wander through the room, then pointed to a kind of black net that lay out on the floor and looked as if it was made of algae, "is a special floor covering. They block vampire powers. As for the rest, I will explain everything, but not here. Let's go into the house. Please, follow me."

He turned away abruptly and walked forward through the door into a long, windowless hallway. His feet dragged across the floor as if it was too strenuous to lift them while walking. Harry followed him hesitantly, a restless gurgle in his stomach. Confused, he looked around.

Now that he was standing in the hallway, he could no longer detect the bright light that had crawled through the crack of the door into the room seconds ago. Perhaps this had been an additional safety measure to keep vampires on the trail, Harry pondered faintly. Where should they flee to if they thought they were surrounded by bright sunlight?

The walls were bare and uncovered, in some places the plaster was crumbling away. The other door, through which he had heard the dribbling, tearing and smacking, was locked, but he would have sensed the scent of blood if it had spilled there. He frowned and lifted his nose into the air, drew it deeply into his lungs, but he couldn't make out anything except old cellar muff, not even the sulfurous stench. Astonished, Harry thought it must have been his nerves that pulled a trick on him.

"Please hurry, Harry. I don't like being down here."

In the meantime, the man had scuffled halfway up a plain stone staircase and stood waiting on a step, his shaky hands clawed into the rusty railing. He looked around quickly and when he noticed that Harry was facing him, he staggered further until he reached a metal door. He pushed it open and hurriedly scurried through the crunch, plunging into bright daylight, and something about the sight made a longing for life swell in Harry's chest, pressing painfully on his eyes.

 _So what_ , Harry thought, _I'm on the run anyway. He could have turned me in long ago if he wanted to. And he could do it even if I stayed in this basement._ The curiosity about what the old man had to say gradually gained the upper hand. He swallowed his suspicion and before the door could close, he had reached it and slid through the crack.

It was as if the handle had been a Portkey that had carried him into another world. Suddenly he was standing in a cozy living room, blinking at the sunbeams spilling into the room from a large window front. Dazed, he shook his head and stared at the brown, dismounted couch and armchairs, with cushions grouped around a living room table overflowing with paperwork.

"Don't worry about the windows. They have a special filter that allows vampires to stay here. Sit down," the man said and turned away. Slowly, he walked over to a large dark wooden cabinet and turned a key in one of the doors, which had leaf tendrils carved into it, winding around hourglasses. He opened it, reached in and took out a large bottle, which was half filled with a clear liquid. With the other hand he took out two champagne glasses. "It's a pity that all the good glasses are broken, but they will do."

Because Harry did not know what to do, he crossed his arms in front of his chest. "You are a wizard," he hissed.

The man turned around, smiling. "I am Professor Saul Croaker, Unspeakable. Pleased to meet you." Carrying the glasses carefully in front of him, he slowly walked to the table and pushed a stack of papers back with the bottle before putting it down. On the other side of the table, several sheets of paper fluttered to the floor.

"Then you arrest me and get drunk afterwards? Come on, what is this?"

Professor Croaker hastily unscrewed the cap and filled both glasses to the brim. A pungent odor rose from the bottle and burned into Harry's nose. "Oh, no. You're not under arrest, Harry. Despite the dungeon. We merely took the freedom not to let you decay in the forest. Actually, it was Alfie. He was kind enough to change his mind after he attacked you."

" _Alfie_?", Harry croaked and gulped. His hand slid as if of its own volition to the spot on his neck where Alfred Bradshaw had bitten him, but he could no longer feel the wound. Apparently it had healed. The horror rumbled painfully in his stomach, and he wrestled down the impulse to flee, which had twitched through his feet when he heard the name of his murderer. Laboriously he pulled himself together. When would he have the chance to get answers again?

"Don't you know that he killed witches and wizards, that he -?"

"Of course I am aware of what he did. But I think, Harry, that I was able to put him on the right track after your transformation. As a mentor. He did not kill anymore, and that is more than you can say of some wizards, of some witches." He sighed regretfully and let himself fall on the couch, then he grabbed one of the glasses and rushed down the contents.

"But he has killed!" cried Harry and came closer to the table. "He murdered a Hogwarts student yesterday! Alma Caldwell!"

Professor Croaker moaned and filled the champagne glass with strong alcohol again. "That's unfortunate," he said softly and took a deep sip.

Harry stared at him. He wanted to throw himself on this old man and shake him until he realized the gravity of this murder, but at the same time his chest was flooded with a bitter hilarity that was about to burst out of him because an Unspeakable was sitting in front of him drinking and nicknaming murderers. He hiccupped, stepped forward and let himself fall into an armchair.

"I can see you're upset about what happened to that girl. You call it murder, Harry, but in fact it's like owls and mice. It's nourishment, perhaps a certain kind of contact. But beyond that, it is extremely difficult for a vampire to give up hunting and killing. Especially to a certain group of them. They always fall back into their old patterns." Croaker straightened his glasses and thoughtfully ran his hand over his forehead.

Disgusted, Harry turned up his nose and bent over, then dropped his head on his hands. "Yes, but it is unnecessary. I did not have to kill anyone, I -"

"I noticed that. And it worries me."

Slowly, Harry raised his head. Professor Croaker looked up at him earnestly.

"When Alfie brought you here, I could see the effect your lifestyle had on your body. The wound would not close, and every drop of blood that came out of it accelerated your decomposition. It seems that your transformation is not fully completed. Perhaps you did not drink enough. Either way, your body is regenerating poorly."

As he spoke, Croaker gestured with his hands. "I'm not sure, since I've never heard of such a case, but ... Well, vampires have to seal the transformation or they die. Usually they do this by killing someone and drinking lots of blood ... Which clearly you didn't do. Your body is in such a bad shape that the final death doesn't seem very far away. I'm sorry, Harry. You need more blood, or you will die."

For a brief moment he saw the lifeless body of Draco lying in his arms, completely drained of blood, and Harry shivered. A lump of grief formed in his throat like a stone and he swallowed dryly past it. "I would rather die," he said harshly.

"Well, it won't be long now, I'm afraid," Croaker said in a regretful tone. There was a clinking as he put the champagne glass down on the table. "You must complete the transformation. Surprisingly, it looks as if your body is not merely taking what it requires. Like countless vampires before you, you want to surrender to death, but unlike them, you may be able to enforce that decision."

Suddenly, Harry wished they had just left him in that forest. Then he would not have known beforehand that he was about to lose his second life. He pulled his mouth shut and squints his eyes to hold back the tears that were piling up burning behind his eyelids. Sacrificing his life to fight in times of war, for those he loved, was different from just giving it away, wasted and hapless to the end. He shook his head numbly. "Are you ... a vampire researcher or something?" he asked hesitantly.

"Me? Oh, no. I have spent my life researching time. But after all the Time-Turners the Ministry had been able to get hold of were destroyed," Harry opened his eyes and looked up, "I was placed in all types of facilities. Moved around, you might say. I was no longer able to do practical research, so to this day I remain literally useless." Despite the melancholy that was heavy in his voice, he smiled at Harry again.

Although Harry wanted to apologize for his involvement in the destruction of the Time-Turners, the words dried up as they passed through his mouth. Instead, he asked, "Then how do you know all this?"

"After the..." He hesitated and wrapped his fingers around each other. "Let's say, after the fall of the Dark Lord, Alfie became a recreational project of mine. At first, I merely housed and examined him, but now I support him as best I can."

Stunned, Harry looked into the warm, brown eyes of the wizard and searched for some sign of the madness he suspected, but nothing revealed any kind of mental imbalance. Except the apologetic attitude towards the vampire's murders that he had taken. "Why would you want to help him?"

"That's a smarter question than you might think," Croaker said slowly and smiled again. "I can assure you that there are good reasons to help him, but he should tell you that himself. Just this much: Reason enough that even I oppose the Ministry and am happy to welcome wanted individuals into my home."

Harry opened his mouth to ask him how he could sleep at all, but at that moment he was interrupted.

"You demand that I tell this lamb what they have done to me?" said a boyish, cheerful voice. Hastily Harry turned around.

At an imposing arch embedded in the wall and apparently leading to the bedrooms, Alfred Bradshaw leaned, his full lips curled into a mean smile. His bright eyes had focused on him. He leaned forward slightly and then a sharp breeze forced Harry to close his eyes. When he opened them again, Bradshaw lollied in the chair next to his. He was wearing short pajama bottoms and a shirt, clean this time, and his light brown hair shone in the sun as if he had only had to wash it to change its entire appearance.

"It is not I who am asking you to tell him. If you want him to understand you, you have to speak your mind openly," urged Croaker. "I remember that you had very specific expectations of this transformation."

Alfred moaned and crossed his arms in front of his chest. Though he answered Croaker, he did not turn to him, but stared at Harry steadfastly. "Yes, and then everything just went down the drain." His face distorted into an angry grimace.

"That's how it is. But you have to ask yourself if you did everything in your power to resolve the situation."

Suddenly, the vampire broke eye contact and looked down at his pale knees. "No, because I escaped from the castle." Then he rolled his eyes. "All right. It's ok. I hereby apologize to you, Harry Potter, for turning you and killing you, and for not being there for you afterwards." It sounded like he was saying something rehearsed.

Nervously, Harry scratched his neck, although it didn't itch. The mere conversation with Professor Croaker had thrown him into extensive confusion, but Alfred's apparent change made it difficult for him to maintain his hatred. When they met at Hogwarts, his voice had sounded old and worn out and he had looked like a tramp. He averted his gaze. "You killed Alma," he said softly.

"There you go. You see the point of apologizing," Alfred squawked defiantly.

"He's right though, Alfie. How many times have we talked about how only those who deserve to die should die?"

When he heard how succinctly the professor spoke about the death of people, Harry's stomach lifted in a sudden nausea. No one should take the right to decide whether anyone deserved to die. He clenched his hands into fists. If he moved quickly, he could twist Croaker's neck before Alfred could kill Harry. If he -

"I know it wasn't her, but she looked just like her mother. Caldwell, I remember that name well," Alfred choked bitterly. He sounded muffled, as if he was speaking through his hands. "From the Ministry. She has ... put this thorn inside me."

Harry turned quickly. Alfred had buried his face in his hands, his hair falling forward and he seemed to slowly sway back and forth. _The Ministry, then. There it goes again. Everything keeps leading back there, every trace, every thought. Everything that goes wrong in the magical world_ , he thought. Then he looked up at Professor Croaker, who, with a pitifully contorted face, was kneading a pillow in his lap.

"I'm really sorry about this, Alfie. But you know it was a mistake, don't you? Alma Caldwell didn't insert that thorn in your body," he said forcefully.

"I know," Alfred cried into his hands. "I know! Only the way she looked at me when I became visible in front of her and her friends... As if she was about to devour me, just like her mother!"

"That too was neither the fault nor the choice of this girl. How many times have we talked about the fact that your traumatic experiences don't justify your uncontrolled behavior?"

"Hundreds of times. But yesterday I wouldn't listen. I didn't _want_ to stop. I just wanted her to die." Slowly, he pulled his hands away from his face. His expression was tortured and he looked into the void.

"What thorn?" Harry asked numbly. Before their fight in the woods, after Alfred had told him what he was supposed to become a vampire for, he had expected that he was doing all this just for fun. He found it difficult to reconcile this unscrupulous murderer with the misery before him.

Again the irritating blue eyes fixed him, but this time they were not surrounded by a roguish expression. They seemed tired. "Professor Caldwell cut open my stomach. Then she pushed it in; about as long as my forearm. It pierced everything in my entire body. Finally she closed me up again until the wound healed. Without taking it out," he recounted soundlessly.

Incredulous, Harry stared at him and ignored the pulsating throb in his throat. "But what does the Ministry have to do with this -?"

"I knew you wouldn't believe me!" cried Alfred suddenly. "I knew it! You would always defend them, no matter what they did! _He is a monster, so we must do everything we can to protect ourselves from him. Every measure is justified._ " Angry, he wiped his wet cheeks. "I suppose you think I don't get it, just because I wasn't a magician before I died. But it's the other way around. You don't get it because you weren't a normal person. You know _nothing_ of the world." He sobbed shakily.

All of a sudden, Harry got so nauseous, the world seemed to shake. He still looked at the now blurred Alfred and shreds of sentences streamed through his throbbing skull. (" _You magicians are glad you know nothing of these things_.") His fingers clung tremblingly to the worn upholstery of the armchair. (" _And what your kind have done to me, these fine people with their fine morals, you cannot even imagine_.") A shrill whistle cut every sound and penetrated his auditory canal like a hot iron. Alfred's mouth moved, but Harry did not understand a word he was saying.

Hands reached for his head, fingertips left burning marks on his skin. Professor Croaker's face moved into his field of vision, strangely indistinct. He seemed to be speaking as well, but his mouth twisted strongly and he seemed panicky.

In contrast, a peaceful feeling spread across his chest. His thoughts slowly faded. A slight tingling sensation had taken hold of his little finger; although everything seemed to be sinking into a jumble of absorbent cotton, it felt clear, penetrating almost. Then every sound was erased from him and from the world. It became completely silent.

Almost reluctantly, Harry noticed through the dream-like weightlessness how something cool and smooth was pressed against his mouth. He wanted to turn his head away, but was unsure how to do it, and a moment later bitter, cold blood poured in his mouth.

Even before it had flowed down his gullet, it brought him back; his hearing, taste and sight, thoughts and memories pulsed through his body with a curiously lively current. He could feel his fangs growing out of his gums until they pierced through something and more blood flooded his mouth.

"Try not to spill. We can't waste blood, Alfie." Professor Croaker's voice sounded clearer than it did in the afternoon. Alfred moaned annoyed.

Without consciously deciding to do so, Harry raised his hands and reached for his mouth, pressing a thick plastic bag more firmly against his teeth. He sucked and swallowed until there was nothing left. It was relieving, it was -

"Oh my God. His finger," Alfred said in horror.

Alarmed, Harry opened his eyes. He lay in the armchair, sucking on an empty blood bag, and Alfred and Professor Croaker looked down on him, Croaker almost as pale as the vampire. Although he feared what he would see, he laboriously loosened his teeth from the plastic and looked at his left hand.

The little finger was completely missing. Only a stump was left, dark red flesh and white bones shimmered through a grey layer of ash. Horrified, he moved the stump. It did not hurt, but it felt strange. "Where is it?" Harry asked in a trembling voice.

Slowly, Alfred pointed his finger at the seat of the armchair. A pile of large pieces of ash lay beside Harry's thigh.

"I am extremely sorry, Harry," Croaker said softly. "This is what happens to vampires when they die: they turn to ashes. I know that you would have chosen the final death, but now you have the opportunity to decide in peace."

Shaking, he looked at his right hand, still clutching the bag. Under his fingers, the letters on the label danced before his eyes.

"I don't believe I want this," whispered Harry.


	15. Chapter 15

As Alfred and Harry climbed the steps of the wooden spiral staircase, his confusion gradually subsided, and the clammy fear that had taken hold of him when he recognized Croaker as a wizard also trickled away. He tried to banish the fact that he had almost died to the farthest corner of his brain, ignoring the lack of weight of his little finger.

The sound of their footsteps was muffled by a thick carpet, causing it to crunch slightly, as if they were walking on freshly fallen snow. It reached down the stairs to the dark hallway, from which several doors led off. One of these rooms, called the vampire rooms by Professor Croaker, he would inhabit with Alfred. Harry swallowed. If he would stay at all.

He still did not know how to deal with this boy. On the one hand, he had apparently killed sixty-three witches and wizards, and Harry shivered inside because of this high number of dead. But the question of whether he would have done so if the Ministry hadn't put _thorns_ in his body remained stubbornly in his mind. He had seen that it had broken Alfred.

Alfred's bony boy hands opened a door, which he held open for Harry. "I never thought I would ever say this." He laughed happily. "Welcome to my room, Harry Potter. By the way, the professor put your things in the closet in case you were wondering."

It seemed like Alfred had shed his suspicions about Harry.

Harry walked past him and entered the unadorned room, in which nothing was to be found except a large, undecorated cupboard, a dingy sofa and piles of clothes on the floor. He slowly walked towards the closet and murmured: "I still have to get used to the fact that I don't need a bed anymore."

"Not me," said Alfred, pushing past Harry and grinning at him. Then he threw himself on the red, worn out cushion of the sofa and crossed his arms behind his head. "In my cell in this research wing of your Ministry, I had nothing. Getting used to it went very quickly. But before they caught me, I always had one, even though I was already..." He paused and looked up at the ceiling with a furrowed forehead. "I was a vampire with a bed for fifty-six years."

Winking, Harry watched as Alfred grabbed an antique-looking lace-up boot with his bare foot and pulled it toward him with his toes before he turned away in embarrassment and opened the closet doors. He did not know how to react to these unpleasant comments about Alfred's trauma. He still didn't understand exactly what it was all about, but asking would have seemed unbearable and callous to him. For a moment, he was struck by the thought that he shouldn't care if he harmed a murderer, but he couldn't bring himself to deliberately putting his foot in his mouth. "Stop calling it _my_ Ministry. I had nothing to do with it."

Even the two-door closet was as empty as the rest of the room; just a messy pile of frayed shirts on the top board, that was all Alfred seemed to own. Combined with the meager piles of clothes on the floor, it really wasn't much, and despite his escape, Harry felt absurdly wealthy in an instant.

Underneath the empty hangers, Harry spotted the dark green of the shoulder bag that Ginny had packed for him. It lay neatly and cleanly on his folded cloak of invisibility. With another glance at the barren room, he refrained from kneeling and searching his clothes. It was not important whether anything was missing. He could only use the cloak anyway, and he would have felt shabby to accuse these people of theft as well.

With a queasy feeling in his stomach, Harry turned around. Alfred's light blue eyes fixed him. "But this one dark guy, this minister, said you wanted to work there," Alfred said, averting his gaze and now concentrating on putting on the shoe with his toes. "He never visited me in the cell, but the other minister did."

"I don't want to work there," Harry snapped in a fit of anger. "It is not without reason that I continued to go to school, although I could have started the training right away!"

"So you _did_ mistrust them after all." A satisfied grin spread across the youthful face, brightening it in a striking way.

Harry sighed and turned his eyes away. "At first I thought it would be different. This dark guy was a friend of mine. Someone who stood by my side in the war. But then these lies came up about the vaccine, and now they're looking for me instead of you." A nervous twitch in his cheek began to set in. "This is certainly not how you imagined my role as the _Butcher of Hogwarts_."

Alfred sighed heavily and finally confessed: "That wasn't what I really wanted from you anyway."

Harry looked up. Alfred gazed at him blankly. "Not primarily, at least... I was just so angry and disappointed because you even followed the sheep herd as a vampire. You reproached me, so I got angry and threw that nonsense at you. Croaker always _tells_ me to watch my mouth."

"I still don't understand why you turned me," Harry said slowly, a strange, exuberant rage suddenly shooting through him. Though he had thought he'd gotten over it by that point, he was not as surprised by it as he had been by his calm demeanor. "You constantly refer to me as a lamb and make it seem as if there is nothing worse than wanting to live a quiet life! Without you and your murders the ministry would never have looked for me and probably I could even still be alive if you weren't so unrestrained and helpless!"

His voice echoed in the empty room. Although it was not necessary, he breathed hastily, as if he had run, as if the anger had drained him.

Infuriated, Alfred puffed up his cheeks and seemed more like a child than ever. "Now you are going too far," he cried. "What I wanted you to do was to open a breach and persuade the minister to stop the experiments on creatures! That you prevent others from being tortured! I thought you would talk to me and understand me and convince this magic society."

It was as if Alfred had emptied a bucket of ice water over Harry's head. He trembled inside as the words swept through his head like leaves in the storm of anger. "And I couldn't have done that as a human being?" cried Harry, but he lacked real anger. All of a sudden he felt tired and worn out.

"Humans don't see that we are not the monsters from the stories!"

"Can you blame them?", Harry asked calmly, and took the few steps forward that it took to cross the small room before he sat down on the sofa. His bottom sank in a few inches.

"No. They are prey. That is how they feel. This is why you are no longer one of them."

Harry kept his eyes on his own pale hands. "Oh, great." He felt empty and kind of stretched out, as if the rage had taken up more space than he could have given it.

"I know. I understand you, because I can't stand it either if I can't blame anyone," said Alfred next to him soberly. Then he laughed softly. Still Harry didn't look up, although Alfred was tapping him on the shoulder persistently by now. "In principle you are not even dead. You can do anything you would have done as a human being. Or is there something you miss?"

"No. Yes. I don't know," Harry replied tonelessly. Though he tried to prevent it, the words sprouted inside him and made thoughts float through his brain like pollen. What he missed was Draco's skin on his lips, the sweet smell that came from him, the taste of his blood. Things he would never have known, never perceived without his transformation. The dreams he had as a human being - to have a job, raise a family, buy a bright, friendly home and live in peace - left only a light, shimmering melancholy in his chest. It was similar to the feeling that came over him when he thought that if he had remained a human being, he would never have gotten to know Draco Malfoy. The thought of never having smelled or _tasted_ him seemed too painful.

For a while they were both silent. Then Alfred murmured: "I was not thrilled when I was transformed either. My death also served another purpose, but unlike you, I was chosen because nobody would miss me if it failed. I was only a typist at this venerable university, nothing that could not be swept under the carpet in some way."

When he heard the bitterness in Alfred's voice, Harry turned his head to the side to look at him. Alfred looked ahead, gazing blankly as if lost in his memories, and he seemed as bitter as he sounded. "What purpose did your death serve?" Harry asked harshly.

Alfred smiled joylessly. "One of the professors at the university did it to me. He wanted to develop a method to transform humans in a lossless way to populate the world with vampires - or something similarly insane. He gave me his blood and killed me. I was the first boy to survive. So my death served to make yours possible. In the long run."

Shuddering, Harry wrapped his arms around his chest. "So people really did perform such experiments back then."

"Actually, they weren't as bad as those at the Ministry. Even though the times were not as elucidated then as they are now. The Ministry started such things in the 60's." He put his face in his hands, an expression that Harry had often seen of Alfred. "People in my time, that is, in my human time, romanticized all this. They found death romantic, especially if it was an early death, so they made up stories about vampires and loved them. Everything to be able to deal with the frequent dying. Of course, that made it a lot easier for me."

Something about Alfred's story made Harry stop and listen with half an ear while he racked his brains, what exactly it was that shocked him so much. The murders began two months after he defeated Voldemort. Alfred was captured in the _sixties_. "You were -" His voice failed and he swallowed. "You were in the Ministry for over _thirty_ years?"

"Yes. That's about right," said Alfred gruffly, raising his knees to his chin and embracing his feet with his hands. Then he lowered his head.

A flood of words rushed at Harry and there were so many that he could no longer articulate himself. A single, quiet "Why?" dripped from his mouth.

"Because they could capture me," Alfred said muffled. "They wanted to make an antitoxin, they said, but they didn't have to cut me open for that. Not that often, at least. They didn't have to use electricity to do it. Or fire. Eventually I became so weak that they could hurt me with their spells, so they fired these painful orange flashes at me. I've never wanted to kill anyone so badly as these people."

He stared down at the slumped boy who had clasped his legs with trembling arms and buried his head between his knees. He thought of the many bodies and wished that the pity that had taken hold of him would turn into seething anger. He wished that it wasn't this boy, Alfie, sitting next to him, but a soulless creature like Voldemort - or Lestrange, something that made it easier to condemn him. "I'm sorry," whispered Harry.

"And now the world should really have ended," mocked Alfred. "One of the good guys believed me and assured me of his sympathy. Unbelievable." He giggled overexcitedly without raising his head. "Are you sure you're not a bad guy, Harry? As a hero, you reach out a hand to the villain, there' s no way you can do that."

A faint grin spread across Harry's face because of the metaphor Alfred had chosen for the scene. "Because not you're the villain but the Ministry."

"Oh. I see. Anyway, Professor Croaker thinks I'm a villain since I killed without starvation. At least he keeps rubbing it in my face."

Harry laid his head back on the soft cushion of the sofa and closed his eyes in a daze. "Maybe he is right, maybe not," he murmured. "Anyway, with most people you can't tell for sure. I killed Voldemort and never felt like a murderer." Weightlessly, a deep calm spread over his limbs, as if a thick, soft blanket had been laid over him.

"Because _he_ was the murderer. You executed him, that's different."

Harry smiled weakly. "Now _you_ excuse _me_. Dead is dead."

"There you go. A natural-born hero."

Harry didn't answer. All tension had left his body and it was as if he no longer had control over his limbs. He was in a state of complete rest, and although he noticed how time passed and realized that Alfred eventually put on his shoes and left the room, he couldn't react anymore. _Good that I am here and not in the forest_ , he thought.

* * *

When Harry opened his eyes, the room lay in deep darkness. Alfred had not yet returned. Uncomfortably he slipped around on the sofa, then he got up and began to walk around the room. He was not sure whether he was invited to look at the other rooms or to get a book from the living room and did not want to attract unpleasant attention on his first day. So he concentrated on his hearing.

Steps in the room opposite. They were light-footed and nimble as his own, not heavy and shuffling like Professor Croaker's. And then a water tap was turned on on the first floor. The heavy gurgling of the water sounded strangely soothing and Harry slowly stepped out into the hallway, followed the pattering, down the stairs, through the archway into the living room and then through a light door to the left into a small kitchen.

Professor Croaker stood, his back turned, against a short countertop, wedged between a battered-looking refrigerator and a stove, and washed a bowl full of potatoes. Harry cleared his throat and Croaker turned to him.

"Ah, Harry. You look rested. Wonderful," he said with a smile, opening a drawer under the countertop and reaching in.

"Why don't you use magic for that? That way it takes so long." Harry looked to the side at a small, square table and pulled one of the folding chairs toward him. It didn't look like it could carry his weight, let alone Croaker's. Carefully he sat down.

"Magic is undoubtedly useful." He pulled a peeler from the drawer. "But I don't originate from a magical family, and to my shame I must confess that these household spells have never been particularly comfortable for me."

Such an ordinary conversation calmed his driven mind better than the resting time had done before and left room for a subject that had never dropped from his mind. "You still haven't explained to me what those screams were."

"Right. I was going to get to that, but Alfie, according to his nature, burst in between. Has he told you in the meantime what happened to him?" Professor Croaker asked seriously.

Harry snorted. "I suppose you mean what the Ministry _did_ to him."

"So he told you. That's reassuring and throws a different light on the fact that you're still here." Again he turned to Harry and smiled. "There were other prisoners besides Alfie, and when he prepared his way to escape, he freed them. They fled as well, of course. Some of these vampires find their way to me. At some point they follow Alfred's scent to talk to him. Then I help them to open their bodies and get out the objects that were put inside them." He shivered. "It is frightening to see which ones they are. Frightening to see what all these poor souls have been wandering with for years, no, decades, inserted into their entrails, pushed into their flesh."

Speechless, Harry stared at the old man's hands. His mouth dry with horror, he watched the rapid movements with which he was peeling the potatoes.

"Earl Sterling, the man you heard scream, came in the night. I showed him how to open his body. Of course, even for immortals, such a cut is not painless."

"Did he... made it through?", Harry asked croaking, an emphatic bouncing in his chest.

Professor Croaker sighed. "He did. He is resting across the hall from your room."

Harry swallowed, then said tensely, "I wonder if you knew what the Ministry is doing."

As if to distract himself, Professor Croaker reached into the drawer again and dug something out of it. "You mean before I met Alfred? No, Harry. I did not know that. Alfie was part of a top-secret research project in the depths of the Department of Mysteries. But I found out about it."

Harry remained silent and watched as a sharp knife sliced the potatoes into cubes.

"It was the day after the great celebration of the fall of The One Whose Name Must Not Be Mentioned. I was on my way to another department, packed with non-disclosure agreements that still had to be signed. The door behind which the research department was located was merely ajar. Normally, it was firmly locked and no one had ever heard a sound come out."

The knife's click-clack underscored his story and Harry, whose neck hairs had stood up, shivered, for he had an inkling of what this story was leading to.

"You must understand that I found myself in a demotivating, deeply humiliating situation - I would never again indulge in my true passion, never again pursue my vocation, and I would be employed in menial jobs until my retirement. A shame. So I opened the door, knowing that this violation could lead to my immediate dismissal - in a touch of age-inappropriate defiance, I must confess."

Professor Croaker paused briefly, as if he had buried the memory of this event so deeply that he first had to dig it up with difficulty.

"It was a horrible sight. Everyone was dead. The researchers lay piled up in a heap on the wall, the blood smeared up the floor. Party hats and paper streamers in the large puddle and in the middle of all this, Alfie knelt and stared. As if he had been drugged." The old man's voice faded in his emotions.

Harry gave him time and waited until the professor's hands had resumed their work before asking, "And yet you took him in?

"Yes. I could tell he was their victim. The wounds they had inflicted on him the day before had not yet completely healed - they often gave him too little blood to maintain his self-healing powers, just enough to let him see what they were doing to him, day after day." Something dark had colored the old man's voice. He leaned heavily on the countertop and seemed to stare down at the bowl of potato pieces.

Harry felt his lips curl to a grimace. "Where did this cruelty come from? Surely these people weren't just a bunch of sadists," he said bitterly.

"Sadists? That's a strong word." Professor Croaker shook his head slowly, as if he had woken from a long sleep and still had to remember where he was. "You've seen the vampire side of this covert war, Harry. And since I, too, have positioned myself on this side, I am the wrong person to ask about their motives. It is possible that some have done so out of sadism. Others may have considered it that a vampire who lives an eternal life, who does not die of injuries, does not suffer either. Like children who torture hamsters or cats because they articulate their pain in a foreign language."

"Sadists." Helplessly, Harry slung his arms to his chest as if he could protect himself from this realization with a shield of his own flesh.

Professor Croaker turned around, leaning his back against the countertop and looking at Harry with an alert expression in his brown eyes. "People who cannot see beyond their own nose. Those who see vampires as a completely alien species that is also a threat to the lives of their families."

Uneasy, Harry slid around on the rickety chair. "But humans _become_ vampires! When you stop torturing them, they stop taking revenge!"

With a pitiful smile, Croaker nodded. "You are trying to break a cycle that has moved our world for thousands of years." He shook his head. "We both know that the Ministry has played a major part in this. But vampires have always been a threat to humans. They're the stronger species, and the thought of protecting themselves from them is only natural. Who started this war, Harry? The vampires, by their very existence and nature? The wizards and witches who capture and torture the weakest of them to wrest protection from them?"

Silently and with the feeling of a beating heart in his chest, Harry listened to the old man's passionate outburst. The thoughts that Croaker's words painted in his head were as horrifying as they were fascinating, because the protagonists of the imaginary battle were not wearing helmets and hoods, but the faces of the people he knew.

"For many a limited mind, however, the war does not begin with themselves, but with the reaction of others to their own actions," Professor Croaker concluded with a mild expression on his face.

"Like Snape in his school days," muttered Harry. Croaker raised an eyebrow questioningly. "He was tormented by my father and had no friends. Then he found some. But they became Death Eaters and he became one too. Then, of course, the prejudices of those who saw only his faults were confirmed." He remembered how passionately he had hated Professor Snape not so long ago and smiled. "And then he gave his life, at least almost, to make up for them," he added, but Croaker seemed no longer to listen.

"This is an excellent example, more so than you might think. We will probably never know if your father is one of the reasons why Professor Snape was reaching for the power of being a Death Eater. But it certainly adds to it. When I met him at a conference I attended to indulge just one of my many interests, he seemed very introverted to me." Croaker straightened his glasses and looked up at the stained ceiling as if he could find answers there.

"My father was also a sadist," Harry muttered slowly. Ashamed to have finally expressed this thought, he turned his gaze away and looked at his hands.

"But no, Harry. I'm sure he was not." Out of the corner of his eye he saw Croaker's worn-out shoes approaching.

He sighed deeply. "Yes, he was. I, for one, could never do such a thing. _Never_. Snape was a poor child and he hadn't hurt anyone before he was attacked. He just said he wanted to go to Slytherin. Does that justify violence?" Harry's voice got lost in the unreal atmosphere between plastic furniture and old-fashioned household appliances. He shivered.

"Do you see what you're doing, Harry?" A warm hand lay on his shoulder, heavy and comforting. Harry suppressed the impulse to shake it off. "You badmouth those from whom you are descended so that your undead existence is not a perversion compared to their lives. Many vampires do."

Suddenly he realized Croaker was too close to him. He could see the blood flowing through the fine veins in his hand and he could smell the tangy smell of his washing powder. With an emphatic jerk, Harry freed his shoulder from the Professor's inappropriate touch. "I don't. I thought so even before my transformation."

"Really? Whenever you thought of your father, did you call him a sadist?" Croaker spoke to him in the same indulgent tone as he had previously spoken to Alfred, and Harry felt as if he was six years old again and had been caught staring out of the window in class.

"No! Does it matter? I thought that I could forgive him for what he did to others, but I can't! I don't need _therapy_ for that!" He screamed the last sentence. When he looked up, Harry saw that Professor Croaker's smile was a bit off. "I am not suddenly going to run amok and kill any people, so you can save that for other vampires," he exclaimed waspishly.

"Nevertheless, I would like you to keep that possibility in mind," Croaker admonished and his forehead wrinkled. "You too have lost a lot and talking often helps with such traumas."

He wanted to say something else, but Harry interrupted him by jumping up and running out of the kitchen. Instead of passing the living room and heading up the stairs, he turned to a large wooden door. For a test, he jiggled the handle and pushed it open. The cool night air quickly clarified his intertwined thoughts, yet he didn't feel the need to face the professor again so soon. He did not want to be analyzed, especially not in a way that would lead to such erroneous results.

_He is a professor but not a psychologist_ , Harry thought and stared sadly into the night. _And yet he is the only one who can help me_.

How long he stood there, leaning against the door frame, he did not know. The house apparently stood on a hill, at its foot a village was grouped. He looked down at the damp paths, squarely illuminated by the lights from the windows.

Harry smiled with relief when he recognized Alfred emerging from the shadows of an alley.


	16. Chapter 16

Draco stared at the crooked shed from the large window front. His family had decided not to tear it down, so they ignored this dirty, decaying stain of rotten wood as best they could. Apparently, no one had ever had the ambition to repair it. At the farthest edge of the land the Malfoys owned, in the middle of a dark little forest, it had once been easy to pretend that the shed did not exist, but over the years, the estate had grown larger and larger through extensions. Meanwhile the back of the house almost touched the edge of the forest.

He smiled blankly, a weak, unwelcome emotion on his face, which quickly disappeared again, and with gloomy looks in the darkness of the smashed windows he searched for that part of himself that he had been missing for a long time. The shadows seemed to float between the fragments of glass until he had the distinct feeling that something evil was staring back. He shivered and sat down on the stone window sill, stretching out his long legs until his feet dangled down on the other side, then bent his upper body forward and put his elbows on his knees.

As a child, he had sat here constantly wondering what secrets this shed might hold. He had imagined that maybe a trapdoor could hide a passage to the rooms of an old, dark wizard. One that would instantly burn any intruder on the spot to ashes with a well-aimed fire spell and then twirl his long, gray beard while watching his servants sweep away the remains. At the time, Draco had still possessed courage, and more than once he had tried to get into this shed to explore it. But the entrance had been secured with a strong protective spell. Each time, he had bounced off in mid-air and was then thrown back by the magic, strong enough that the impact on the ground took his breath away.

Sometimes he had only gone there to be thrown back for he knew his mother would come running, hold him close and carry him away, no matter how filthy he was.

A lightning pain shot through his leg. Draco groaned and pulled his legs to his chest, embracing them with his arms. As a child, this position had not been so uncomfortable, but that wasn't the only reason he wished he could turn back time. Earlier, when he still believed that his life would be a good one, he had possessed the strength to risk it, a trait he could use today.

Forest and shed became blurred at the edge of his field of vision as he focused on the faint reflection of himself in the window pane. Washed-out contours, light hair over pale skin, underneath a dark festive cloak whose precious shimmer faded in the grimy window pane as if absorbed by the ubiquitous dust. His stomach was suddenly rumbling, and Draco was so fixated on the startling sight in the glass that he didn't notice someone entering the room.

"Your mother is having a nervous breakdown," Severus said quietly in his back.

Draco winced and turned around. Although he was beginning to feel sick, he had to grin hard because Snape had come in the cloak he usually wore. It was slightly washed out and frayed at the sleeves. Proof of his words, because if Draco's mother hadn't almost been on the verge of collapse, she would hardly have accepted this outfit. She would certainly have tried to coax him into a more festive cloak and then Severus would have rushed away in a rage and left the festivity. As always. It was only thanks to the years of friendship that Lucius Malfoy was even willing to have Snape join in the family celebrations.

Severus raised an eyebrow, but his face seemed relaxed. "She tore down the marquee and moved the celebration to the banquet hall," he said, and his mouth curled up into a gloating grin.

"This means that the nervous breakdown will last until tomorrow morning. At least." All of a sudden, Draco felt an urgent need to lie down in his bed, pull the blanket over his head, and never look out again.

Draco remembered the celebration of his ninth birthday. It had been a happy day. Many people had come to congratulate him and shower him with gifts. A day when he did not feel lonely, but had even found a friend, a little boy named Theodore Nott. Although Nott couldn't look him in the eye while he whispered in reply to his questions, Draco had been entranced by this intimidated boy whose outmoded child's cloak had been shabby and worn. Unfortunately, he smashed an elaborately decorated crystal glass dome that had stood on a side table. Draco had laughed and swept the shards under a carpet with his shoe, then he had assured Nott that it did not matter.

In the evening it had become clear how wrong Draco had been. His mother had discovered the shards, and while her angry, warped face was still turning to him, one of the strands of hair had come loose from her laboriously pinned-up hairstyle. "Who did this? Under the dome was an old magic spell that - WHO did THIS?", she shouted. Draco had never seen her in such a state and had slowly receded. He had thought of Nott and stammered that he himself had done it. But she didn't believe him and quickly came to the truth, for Nott had been one of the few children who had visited Draco at all. All night long she screamed and cursed Nott, so that even Lucius, his father, turned away in disgust.

This had been the end of his brief friendship with Nott, for although Draco had written to him often, he never received a reply. At school, he had the impression that Nott feared him - him and the wrath of the Malfoys. It had also been the end of the famous celebrations at the Malfoy estate. His mother had learned a lesson from the incident and from then on rented a marquee whenever there was something to celebrate.

If she had abandoned this attitude on such a day, she was in a worse mental state than Draco could have guessed.

"Fortunately for you, you only have to put up with her until evening," Snape etched. Despite his mean tone of voice, he looked at Draco with a relaxed gaze. "I actually believed you would have run away."

Draco's cheeks burned with shame and, caught, he averted his eyes. "I thought about it. But where should I go? What am I to do with my life?" In a deep sorrow, not unknown to him, his chest tightened. He sniffed. "Above all, why should I care? You don't believe he's alive either." As the worn carpet faded in his gaze, Draco desperately bit his tongue.

"So it depends on Potter's existence if you want to shape your life yourself," Snape hissed contemptuously. He spat out the name like something decaying on his tongue.

With a suppressed sob that piled up in his throat along with the words he swallowed, Draco clawed his fingernails into the soft skin of his palms until the pain brought him back to reality. He did not answer.

Through the murmur in his ears, Draco heard Severus move closer to him and then stop. He paused for a while until he dropped onto the window sill beside him. A peculiar smell of herbs and smoke rose into Draco's nose.

"I _want_ you to run away, Draco," he whispered insistently.

Draco froze for a second, then he turned to Snape so quickly that his neck cracked. Surprised, he stared at his face, which was distorted in disgust. "Do you suddenly care if I am happy?" he asked incredulously.

Snape looked away. "That doesn't interest me. But it spares me this pathetic wedding," he said laconically.

Despite the bizarre situation, a slight smile plucked at the corners of Draco's mouth. He didn't believe that his godfather was only interested in leaving the festivities quickly. For this purpose he simply could go. This way, he would finally fulfill the negative expectations of Draco's parents towards their long-time friend. A warm feeling pulsed through his veins. Snape cared for him, Draco.

He allowed the smile on his face. "Did your near-death flip a switch inside you? You seem so tame," he said softly, a faint mockery lay in Draco's voice.

"You'll find out when the measure is full, at the latest. Then I will assassinate your guests," Severus growled indefinitely.

The thought of Harry and the pain accompanying him was much too recent for jokes of this kind. Draco's smile faded. "Remember me when you assassinate everyone. You would do me a great favor." A cold bitterness spread through his body like acid, throbbing, paralysing.

Suddenly Snape turned back to him and gazed at him with an angry look. "Did Potter have a thing for such theatrics?", he hissed.

Every word he said was painfully imprinted in Draco's chest as if they had been pressed into his skin with a branding iron. _Did_. He knew, of course, from what the newspapers reported, that he might have hoped in vain that Harry was still alive and had not come to him for a reason; that he might have discovered his sadistic streak and waited for the moment when Draco would almost dissolve from heartache.

If he were one of the protagonists in a ridiculous novel like Mother liked to read when she felt unobserved, Harry would have come to his rescue just at the time the objections were asked before the marriage. He would shout loudly that he had objections and seem completely unrestrained, as was his custom, and when everyone was silent and stared at him in consternation, he would shout at Astoria that Draco was _his_ guy and that she should scram. He smiled weakly. Not that he had ever read such novels - or taken them seriously.

"I'm going to marry Astoria and do what my parents want," Draco said soundlessly, staring at his hands.

"Of course." He noticed that bitterness drenched Snape's voice and he looked up before he could stop himself. The Potions Master's face was distorted into a grimace, angry, sneering, and Draco flinched. "Of course you will. You are sacrificing yourself and your life for a greater purpose. Easy to understand. And so _noble_. And absolute proof that your rebellious, strong character alone... was entirely Potter-induced." Severus smiled joylessly.

A burning sensation spread to Draco's face, starting on his cheeks, and if it wasn't Snape who gave him a reprimand, he would just jump up and run away. "What are you talking about?," Draco hissed as his hands tightened around the stone bench. "I never revolted. Always trying hard to be who I was meant to be, except for ... last winter. But now it's over and I don't have to try anymore." Suppressed feelings made his voice tremble and Snape's face blurred in the background with the sheets that had been hung over the furniture at some point. His attempt to blink the tears away failed. Instead, the blinking of his eyelids knocked them out of his eyes so that they were visibly spread on his cheeks. Angrily, he looked to the side.

"Until one day you wake up next to the woman your parents have chosen for you, in a bedroom furnished by them, wearing clothes they consider appropriate and doing a job you hate. At some point, you realize that you no longer exist. What is the difference between effortless and soulless?"

The idea Snape's brutal words forced into his mind softened his anger and made it flow as if made of chalk. Draco sighed powerlessly and watched the thick drops dripping from his chin onto his hand, leaving a cold trail. "But that has always been my path. I have never revolted."

Draco waited, but Snape did not answer. As he turned without wiping away the tears that had long since burned into his skin, he found himself once again valued by staring black eyes that seemed to look inside him. "I never revolted," Draco repeated, clawing his wet hand into the flowing fabric of the cape.

Suddenly, Severus jumped up. "You are lying to yourself," he roared. Draco flinched. Frozen, he watched Snape limp to the door as if he wanted to flee from him. "There is nothing that can help you now," he growled and ripped open the door, slipped through without looking back, then slammed it behind him.

Irritated by the change in mood, Draco stared into the void, blinking. "What was that?", he asked aloud, although he was now alone in the unused room, and shook his head. Then he got up, knocked the dust off the back of his dark festive cloak and slowly stepped towards the door. Before he opened it, he turned around once more and took a longing look at the old shed.

_A little courage would suit me now_ , he thought numbly.

* * *

Draco slipped into an adjoining room of the banquet hall, unnoticed by the helpers, who brought in tables and chairs, floral wreaths and draperies. He had only a brief glimpse for the chaos over which a mantle of glamour, style and perfection would be draped over the course of the morning, for it reminded him of a time when he had nothing to fear.

As he closed the door behind himself and shut out the impression, he sighed softly and leaned against the cool wood with his eyes closed. Although the grief had settled as pain in his throat, he allowed himself to think back to the only day he had felt alive and free.

"Where have you been, Draco?" His mother's voice slashed thoughts of flashing green eyes and rosy cheeks and frizzy dark hair. Caught, Draco flinched and glanced at a large round window in front of which she stood, hands on her hips, ready to fight like a Valkyrie. Her artfully pinned up hair had loosened, the dress wrinkled under her cramped fingers.

Draco could almost feel the tension surrounding her, and he knew that if he didn't answer, it only would increase. He swallowed, opened his mouth and after a short time closed it again, for the words got lost in their path. Instead, he walked towards his mother and pulled himself up beside her on a table covered with linen cloth. He let his legs dangle down and watched the swirling grains of dust dancing in the sunlight. A numb emptiness spread inside him, as his wedding was imminent, and from now on there wouldn't be many honest words in his life.

"Draco, I'm talking to you and if you don't -" Narzissa Malfoy nagged, but Draco interrupted her. Contrary to his belief, there was still something to say and suddenly the words gushed out of his mouth.

"I was in the unused part of the house thinking about everything," he said aloud. He looked stubbornly ahead, but in the corners of his eyes he saw his mother flinching. "And what are you doing here?"

"Oh, but of course you did! How could you not, when the smoothness of this day is more important than anything else!" Her voice sounded shrill and agitated. He did not have to look to know that her cheeks were glowing red.

It was a conversation that Draco knew perfectly well. Whenever his parents disagreed with him - or thought they did - he had to defend himself against the dramatic hysteria of his mother (who made every sentence refer to herself) and the exhausting lack of empathy of his father (who thought everything that brought neither money nor prestige was baloney). The result was always the same: He gave in, more or less willingly, and looked forward to the time at Hogwarts when no one tried to control his true beliefs.

Not today.

Although his palms were now resting moist on the dusty cloth, he continued to look straight ahead. He took a deep breath and tried to give his voice an emotionless tone. "But no, Mother. How could my still valid agreement to this connection cause the sequence of events to falter?" He allowed himself a noncommittal smile and then looked Narcissa in the reddened face. A muscle on her cheek twitched and her eyes were opened, but a moment later her expression darkened.

"If you don't get rid of that ridiculous attitude right now, I'm going to get your father! He'll make you stop playing with me like this," she hissed, "on a day like this! You should be ashamed of yourself." She crossed her arms in front of her chest, and the ribbons of lace that she had wrapped around her cream-colored dress slipped.

"Since I do not know what attitude you speak of -"

"You think I didn't notice that you invited that Granger brat? That alone is a violation of everything we ever taught you. But other than that: You must marry Miss Greengrass and you must do it today," she interrupted him angrily. "The Ministry has sent its minions here to check that you are complying with your conditions."

It took Draco a while to grasp the words, and at that moment, his superiority collapsed. He felt the fake smile flow from his face and let his cheeks hang limp. The numb feeling that had shriveled to a hard core in his chest spread thumping and impermeable to his tiptoes. "Excuse me?" he whispered.

"They are here and will attend your wedding. But if you hadn't intended to blow it up anyway, that can hardly shake you," Narcissa replied, suddenly calm, almost soundless.

Draco shook his head mechanically, again and again and again, until his hair was waving against his chin like a sea wave. He had certainly intended to follow in his parents' footsteps, yet he felt impaled by the outrageous news of Aurors at his wedding. Unwanted images flooded into his mind of Harry stepping on dead petals between white wooden benches to announce his claim on Draco - and suddenly being struck motionless by lightning bolts from magic until he crumbled to dust. Draco swallowed dryly. That certainly would not happen.

"I was thinking of running away. Just for a moment. It's probably better that I didn't," he said harshly.

He expected his mother to shriek that she had known it and that Draco wanted to ruin everything for her. Instead, she came closer and began to pat down his cloak. Shocked, he watched as her hands beat small clouds of dust from the fibers.

"Don't you like Astoria?", she asked quietly.

Timidly, he looked up at her smooth face. She glanced back openly, and it was this moment that made the desire to confide in her burst out of him.

"No. No, I _hate_ her," Draco shouted passionately. He paused to see how Narcissa reacted, and as her hands gently touched his upper arms, he added, "At least that's how it has been since I realized that I am forced to marry her; that I will never get rid of her."

"I'm sure some day you won't want to get rid of her anymore." Probably she wanted to cheer him up, but she failed; Draco felt mocked by her light smile and the fact that she had waited until he wanted to open up to her.

With one careless movement, he wiped her hands from his shoulders. "Oh yeah? How could I not, when I have to put up with her in my bed, at the breakfast table and at parties. Every day I'll have to think about how to do justice to her cursed brood and how I can finance her shoes and Merlin knows what else!" Increasingly his voice swelled up and Draco jumped off the table, filled with new strength. With his eyes narrowed, he looked down at his mother, who was smaller than him despite her high-heeled shoes, "She will prevent me from living my life, yes, just being able to bear it. I will always hate her."

The fine smile on his mother's face had long since collapsed. She looked at him without expression. "We all had to go through these uncertainties. You will love this girl one day."

A scornful laugh dripped from Draco's mouth. "This is probably something that parents have been telling their by convention unhappy children for generations. Do you think that will make me happy? The hope that one day I will at least accept a life that seems not worth living?"

"Don't speak to me in such a tone, Draco!" He could see that she was trying to regain her superiority, but the hurt still gleamed from her gaze and lay as a tremor on her painted lips.

"What's wrong with my tone of voice, Mother," he cried, and the sudden heartfelt desire, all on the other side of the door, servants like Aurors, to hear his outburst, made his voice swell. "Is it not suitably _happy_ enough that you are wasting the only life I will ever have on the possibility of having grandchildren?"

He heard the clap of Narcissas palm on his cheek a second before he felt the pain, then flinched. The throbbing of his flesh mingled with the pounding of his angry pulse, a feeling he had almost forgotten.

She stood before him, her hand still raised, her forehead wrinkled, breathing heavily as if the blow had strained her. When she noticed his piercing look, she whispered, "You're hysterical." It sounded like a cheap justification, for in fact she had hit him because she couldn't stand the criticism when Draco fired it in high doses - in this case he was sure of it.

"How can you not care what you do to me?" Draco asked calmly.

Narcissa looked him firmly in the eye. "Because it was the same with me."

It was so unfair that Draco's trembling hands clawed into his festive cloak and he snorted. "Oh, have _you_ ever lost your heart to someone else? Did you realize that you would never truly find love with my father, but you had to make it look that way on the outside? I must say, you are a good actress. Either that, or there's no comparison."

"This is the first time I've heard you say you're already in love with another girl. How can I take that into account if you don't tell me?" Narcissa asked, and curled her mouth as if she had bitten something rotten, and Draco, whose vision was blurred, suddenly wished she had never said that, so he could be angry forever.

"She's not what you expected," Draco replied weakly.

"Is she poor, or maybe even half-blooded? Oh, Draco, we would have found solutions to that." Narcissa took a step closer and gently stroked the throbbing flesh on his cheek.

"It's a boy, Mother," he murmured indistinctly. A moment later he wished he could take the words back or they might have been incomprehensible, but his mother's hand froze in motion and then flowed down his face. Her blue eyes stared at him incredulously dilated.

Draco took a step back. "Half-blooded he is indeed and probably also penniless, if he is still alive at all. All signs speak against it, and I have not heard from him for five months. You expect me to marry this woman and you're lucky I do, because if I really _believed_ he was alive, I would never do such a thing." He sobbed and his mother's horrified expression became unclear. "Be glad he's dead, but don't expect me to ever speak to you or father again."

Before she could say anything else, Draco turned around and opened the door. Knowing that everyone would see his tears, he vowed inwardly to carry his disgust clearly in front of him, and as he glided his gaze across the benches decorated with flowers, he realized what Severus meant when he spoke of Draco's rebellious character.

He smiled in disgust and tore up the bouquet of flowers, which had been tied to the wood in front of him with white lace, with his fingers.

* * *

"Oh, _look_ , Linus. There he is," cried an indignant female voice. Piercingly, it echoed over to Draco between the empty benches. He wrinkled his nose, but kept his eyes fixed on the dead white petals in his hand.

"Draco Malfoy! Hello!" Meanwhile she shrieked in a shrill tone. With an effort of will, which seemed ridiculously overwhelming to him, he lifted his gaze and discovered Mrs. Greengrass ahead of him, pointing her finger at him with a smile. A skin fold on Mrs. Greengrass's naked upper arm buffed in time with her waving, as if it were filled with dough. He raised his eyebrows and waved a wicked grin. _What a rabble_.

Even though it cost him a lot not to break out in loud laughter or throw up, Draco put on his most polite fake smile and walked towards her. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Greengrass," he said exaggeratedly friendly, hinting at a bow. "Mr. Greengrass," he shook the hand extended to him. He did not forget the oath to show his displeasure clearly. However, it would have a much better and more lasting effect if he waited until the wedding ceremony.

"We were just admiring the banquet hall decoration," said Mrs. Greengrass, whose bright pink feather, pinned to her hat, swayed forward in time with her nodding. "Celtic knots, no, how clever. It's all just wonderful."

"You seem agitated," said Mr. Greengrass in an irritatingly accusatory tone, and when Draco turned to him, the man's angry look burned into his skin. Uncomfortable, he stepped from one leg to the other and before he could stop it, he asked himself what he might have done wrong.

"Oh, please, Linus. Just don't worry about it. You were certainly upset when you married me," Mrs. Greengrass cooed patronizingly.

Mr. Greengrass, whose expression was still tense, simply turned his back on them and stomped to the buffet with slamming heels inappropriately childish looking. Suddenly, Mrs. Greengrass's cheerful expression seemed to slip slightly.

"Don't worry, kid, I think it's just the American temperament. It's completely foreign to us British, isn't it? Confidentially, he didn't want this wedding, especially not as an arranged marriage, but since Astoria made no effort to find a husband, he agreed." She took a deep breath and seemed confident again. "He'll like you, that's for sure. It's these prejudices." Then she leaned over to Draco and whispered in a conspiratorial tone: "Linus knows all about the posh people, because he was one himself. They disowned him after he married me, of course, but he can't deny his birth and what he knows about it, of course. But he will like you."

Draco had to summon up all the willpower not to lean back in disgust and managed to produce a reasonably dignified nod - at least he was hoping so. Apparently, Mrs. Greengrass didn't pay attention to him anymore. "I should now help my daughter. She will look absolutely _magical_."

Suppressing a loud laugh, he turned away and stepped out of the banquet hall into the entrance area of the manor house. If these people were considered appropriate by his parents, there couldn't have been many candidates. Presumably, Harry would have had a better chance if he had asked Draco's parents for a private conversation.

Numbly, Draco leaned against a side-table and, hidden by a huge, tulle-covered potted plant that no one had yet moved into the banquet hall, watched as the benches filled with guests and spectators. He caught a glimpse of an auror's purple cape and corrected himself in his thoughts. Harry would have had a chance if he was still the hero of the magical world.

He pressed his lips together to a line. If only he would still be alive.


	17. Chapter 17

After five months, the outside world seemed to retain an air of non-reality, as if it were made up of volatile particles that would scatter in a wild dance when Harry stretched out his fingers at them. The spring sun shone brightly in his eyes, and he perceived a pungent odor, like melted rubber on a stove, only interrupted by the heavy, stunning scent of blooming flowers.

He stood in the meadow in front of Professor Croaker's house and waited, blinking, until his eyes got used to the explosion of brightness and heat. Despite the large window front that framed the living room and let daylight into the house, the world melted into multifaceted streaks in his gaze now that he was allowed to set foot outside for the first time in ages.

"You claimed the filter was hardly worth mentioning," Harry growled with narrowed eyes. He did not bother to turn around. He wouldn't recognize the professor anyway, because it felt like the light was cauterizing his eyes. Only the sound of the beating heart and the whiff of a breath told Harry that the only really living person in the household was nearby.

"I really didn't notice the light filter," the professor replied in a good mood. His voice blew over to Harry from the porch of the house. "May I remind you that this is only a test anyway, Harry? As soon as it turns out that you are finally suffering pain in direct sunlight, we will go back inside."

Harry drew the corners of his mouth into a tense grimace. " Yeah, of course," he yapped. "Of course. When I _finally_ go up in flames, I'll be locked up again." His fingers dug into the rough fabric of his faded jeans. He laboriously suppressed a sardonic grin.

He could hear Croaker coming closer with his tired, shuffling steps. "No one is going to lock you up, Harry. It saddens me to hear you still believe that. Every time you refuse to talk, you return to your old beliefs. To your paranoid beliefs, I might add." He paused and ran his hand over the rough beard stubbles.

Harry flinched. The sound of a damp palm brushing the bristly hair to the side disgusted him the most after all the time he had spent in the house with the professor. "I mean, it's not like my paranoid beliefs saved the magical world's ass," Harry growled indistinctly.

A soft laugh resounded right next to him. In the meantime, the sun had lost its burn. It had aroused a peaceful and happy feeling in his chest. Though Harry's eyes had gradually become accustomed to the brightness, he still squinted and didn't turn around so that he wouldn't have to go straight inside. He knew that he would not burst into flames today either, despite Croaker's theory that he only needed to drink more blood to become a _true_ vampire.

"I doubt it was your paranoia that liberated us from You-Know-Who," Croaker gurgled. Then, suddenly serious, he added: "It doesn't look like our efforts are going to produce results, Harry. We should head inside."

The words he had secretly feared tore the peaceful feeling out of him with a jerk. Words that cast shadows over the world around him and desaturated the spring colors, turning the warm tingle of the sun on his skin into pinpricks. Suddenly it felt as if their light could no longer reach him, as if he was indeed no part of this world. The same sensations tormented him every time Croaker forbade him to write to his friends or leave the house, even when Alfie offered to accompany him. Meanwhile, Harry felt that this situation only had the purpose of demoralizing him.

"I don't want to," Harry murmured.

"Oh, but you _will_ go inside. You know perfectly well that we cannot permit anyone to see you loitering in my garden," Croaker replied. "Except that you will certainly be looking for your boyfriend, thus breaking the iron rule in this house." His tone of voice sounded far too light-hearted and cheerful for this occasion; apparently, the peaceful day also affected his mood. The quiet doubt about Croaker's motives, which had been stirred up in Harry's head from time to time over the past months, increased.

Harry cleared his throat and clenched his hands into fists. "I still do not understand how it can be a rule that I never see my boyfriend again." _You will go inside_. He remembered the night three weeks ago, when he had jumped out of the window into the darkness - he had felt the overwhelming need to check on Kreacher. He barely had walked for half an hour when he had been surrounded by three vampires and brought back into the house. Presumably Croaker would carry out his threat to lock him in the basement for two weeks next time if he did not cooperate.

He looked at Croaker, who frowned reluctantly. "You are the only one here whose mate is a Malfoy. What I have learned during my stately career in the Ministry is that Malfoy's are terrible tattletales." Harry drew breath to contradict, but the professor raised a hand to signify him to be quiet. "You will say that yours is not, but I happened to be present when he made his statement - in the Death Eaters trials. How he threw around wild allegations! No, no, he'll betray us for sure."

With quiet regret, Harry bit his tongue. If he did not shut up now, it would cost him everything. "That's right, Professor. I realize that if I'm seen by anyone, it only alerts the Ministry to your project." As he answered, he thought about his chances and tried to ignore the feeling that he had to correct the image Croaker had of Draco. "Just let me take one more breath."

There were currently six vampires in the house, including Alfie, who would most likely not help lock Harry up. Six _true_ vampires. Harry smiled and turned to Croaker. "Let's go."

The wrinkles on the professor's face shifted as he puckered his eyebrows skeptically. "I commend you for not arguing with me any further."

They walked together across the wildly growing lawn, the chirping of birds accompanied their steps, and Harry, who had gathered hardly any impressions in the last few months apart from studying dusty books and talking to Alfie, felt reminded of the beautiful days at Hogwarts by this alone. Usually he had defeated a threat, solved a riddle, passed his exams, and enjoyed sunny days of laughter with his friends, with the excitement of perhaps visiting Ron during the summer break.

About the same as now. The excitement of actually leaving the house, rather than just dreaming about it, tingled in his veins as if thousands of ants were scurrying through them. He would be responsible for himself and run away from the Ministry's henchmen. He would visit Kreacher and make sure that he was doing well. He would see Hermione again - and possibly Ron, who could report to him directly from the Auror Headquarters.

This time he would not give in to Croaker. Once he was outside the house, no one would be able to connect him with the professor.

As Harry entered the cool, sunlit interior of the house, a thought fluttered in his skull, making something throb in his chest as if he still had a heart that could beat.

He would see Draco again.

Despite his training, he found it hard to suppress the all-too-rapid breath that made him seem so human, especially now as he thought of the warm, soft lips, Draco's laugh, and the delicious sound of his bloodstream.

Every night, when the house gradually darkened and the world sank into silence because the other vampires were enjoying their freedom and Croaker was going to sleep, Harry had thought of him. With a wistful smile on his face and a sore tug in his chest, he had imagined how he would hold him in his arms when they could finally meet again. In Harry's mind, Croaker had often died of old age or been arrested by the Ministry, for he would not let Harry go, of course.

Since he had become a vampire, Harry had found it difficult to break rules. As a human he had had no problems with it, especially when it came to people he cared about, but now the effort to cut the corset of regulations had become more intense; the cords of duty had cut his skin to a greater extent as he became a more serious menace. Alone the longing for life that his first step outside the door had triggered would drive him out of the house.

He gritted his teeth and turned away from Croaker, who stood at the door and waved his wand to place reverse anti-intruder jinxes around the property. They would not be able to stop him thanks to Alfred's clandestine help. He rushed up the stairs, across the thick carpet through the hallway and into Alfie's room.

Although they shared the sparsely furnished room, few items had been added. It took only a second for Harry to spot a corner of his Invisibility Cloak under the sofa. It had been there since Harry had fled Hogwarts. In the hopeless boredom that had gripped him over the past months had simply been no use for it.

As he stepped over, bent down and reached for it, he heard the crunch of the carpet and soft steps approaching. "Hey, Harry. I brought you something--" Alfie froze in the middle of the sentence. "You want to go, don't you?"

Frustrated, Harry whirled around and stared at Alfie, who stood outside the open door with a jar full of blood, looking at him in bewilderment. "I - I just wanted -" Suddenly it occurred to him that he could have thrown himself on the sofa to pretend to rest. Or as though he wanted to play a trick on the professor as an invisible. Gently, the flowing fabric of the cloak rested in the palm of his hand. If he quickly put it on and ran away, he might be able to escape into the sun before anyone would catch up with him.

"Listen," Alfie murmured, looked around and closed the door behind him. Then he reached out his hand holding the glass and grinned. "I think it's good that you're finally growing some balls. To be honest, I never understood why you let yourself be treated like that by an old fart like him. I thought about leaving Croaker behind with his stupid therapy, but if you leave, I'll stay put for a while." His unsettling blue eyes sparkled in high spirits.

With a trembling hand, Harry grabbed the glass and placed it on his lips without smelling the contents to mask the embarrassing moment when he once again knew nothing to say. Cool blood flowed into his mouth, and only at that moment did he realize how parched he was. He emptied the glass down to the bottom, although it tasted disgusting and bitter and had apparently already begun to clot.

"It' s from a really sweet cashier," Alfie whispered, wagging his eyebrows suggestively. "She didn't mind that I took something extra for you."

"Is she still alive?" Harry asked weakly, suppressing a shiver.

Alfie giggled. "What do you think? Of course she is all right." Then he squeezed Harry's shoulder and looked at him with an intense glance. "Now, you mustn't forget to let the vampire poison draw from your pores. Renew the protective film every day so no spell can harm you."

A queasy feeling spread into Harry's stomach as he put the glass on the floor, nodded and hugged Alfie for a short moment. Murderer, avenger, grumpy child - good friend. Protector. No word could do justice to this boy without omitting something important.

One more swapped look, one more smile, which in Harry's case got a little shaky, and he pulled the Invisibility Cloak over his head.

"Take care, Harry," said Alfie. "Give my regards to your Draco."

Undisturbed, he hurried down the long corridor, wrapped the Cloak around him like a fluttering promise of protection, and rumbled down the stairs. In the siesta his steps sounded like thunderclaps, but they did not drown out the professor's shuffling in Harry's ears. He stopped and stomped audibly on the floor once more, then the shrill squeaking of the cellar door sounded.

"What's all this ruckus about?", Croaker grumbled and stuck his head out of the crack of the door. With an expectant gurgling in his stomach, Harry waited until it dawned on the man what was about to happen. At first the professor looked stunned, almost shocked, and with nimble hands he pushed his glasses higher on his nose, then he slipped into the hallway and dipped his white shock of hair into the sunshine coming through the windows, rushed to the front door and stood in front of it as if he could wrestle Harry down alone.

"HELP," he cried, so loud that it echoed in Harry's ears. "COME QUICKLY, I NEED HELP!"

The smile dug deeper into Harry's cheeks when he heard the sound of leisurely steps further back in the house. Something fluttered in his chest and he put his hand in front of his mouth to hold back his gaiety. Silently, he tapped several steps to the side and stomped again with full force. As the frightened look from Croaker's widened eyes followed the sound and looked in his direction, he went back as quietly as he could. Apparently Croaker did not have his wand with him, or he would have ended the fun with a summoning spell.

"NOW COME ALREADY! HE TRIES TO ESCAPE!" The old man's trembling fingers clung to the door frame so tightly that his ankles appeared white.

Gradually, Harry began to wonder if the fear that he might betray Croaker and his vampire house was the only reason why he was not allowed to leave. The impression that there was much more at stake pushed through his tense joy.

At that moment Alfie came strolling down the stairs. He grinned slyly. "Is this one of _your_ paranoid fits, Professor? Maybe you need a therapy session, because I don't see anyone here," he whispered and then broke out into loud clucking.

"Alfie, please. You know he has an Invisibility Cloak," cried Croaker in a pleading tone.

"By then, he'll be gone for sure. I mean, he's a free man, like all of us, and can go wherever he wants, so what's all the fuss about?" Alfie scratched his head in an exaggeratedly perplexed way. "If you want to report him, you'll have plenty to explain yourself."

Although he was also interested in the answer to the question, Harry realized that he couldn't wait for it. He could not waste any more time, as much as he enjoyed the situation.

"That's why we have to stop him," the professor whispered emphatically. "He must not leave, it simply won't work".

Harry did not have to exert himself to push the man off the door, yet he slipped a few feet sideways when he gave him a shove straight into the side. He didn't bother to open the door, as it hung off its hinges with a heavy kick. The warm spring air blew in and mixed with the old muff of dusty books and rotten wood; Alfie laughed uplifted and out of the corner of his eye Harry saw the professor reaching into the pocket of his cloak. Well, there it was.

He focused on the bitter taste that surrounded his teeth and imagined being enveloped by it, hunted by the possibility that Croaker might bewitch him before he could direct the protective film of venom out of his skin, which could prevent worse damage. But only a moment later he felt a breeze, heard a giggle.

"Is this what you're looking for, Professor? I've always wanted to try doing some magic with it," cried Alfie, his voice stumbling with childish excitement, and rumbling up the stairs. When Harry took the step to freedom with a grin, the spells that were supposed to keep intruders outside and him inside the house tingled on his skin and dissipated.

Wrapped in rays of sunshine, he felt protected from the other vampires who were slowly wandering to the entrance of the house, driven more by curiosity than a sense of duty. They would not be able to follow him anyway.

Elated, Harry turned away from the house and walked slowly along the stone path out of Croaker's garden, smiling as he ignored the screams that sounded in his back.

"If you do not return immediately, you will regret it, Harry Potter!"

Of course. Such a threat impresses him terribly, therefore he would rather be locked up again.

* * *

The houses with the numbers eleven and thirteen moved apart as another house grew in their middle. Walls pushed into gaps, unnoticed by the Muggles in their homes, and although a dark sadness slipped through Harry's chest, he smiled involuntarily as he put his fingertips on the black, flaking paint of the door. It almost felt as if the house was breathing and puffing against his touch, despite the fine, impenetrable fibers of the Cloak that lay between him and his home.

Though the hunters and Aurors probably never expected Harry to visit his home after so long, it would be foolish to enter it without a test. The Ministry had undoubtedly made every effort to get in, and Harry didn't know if the protection spells were still in place now that he was no longer a wizard. The Aurors and Vampire Hunters, however, would not be able to surprise him. He would smell them long before that.

Bitterly, he thought of his escape from Hogwarts and how Kingsley had weighed him in false security to most likely arrest him. Harry suspected that if they could catch him, they would charge him with all the sixty-three murders.

With a cheerless smile, he bowed his head forward until his forehead rested on the splintered texture of the paint. Then he took a deep breath, began to concentrate, but suddenly flinched back and grimaced. The stench, which was almost visibly over this road and wafting in the warmth of the evening, had gnawed through his nose like acid.

Hesitantly, he inhaled again, shallowly this time, to get used to the rotting garbage, so that he would have a chance to perceive the faint odor he had always noticed when Croaker did his magic underneath: Slightly scorched, like dust on a turned-on heater. This was the smell that surrounded wizards and witches when they cast spells. And indeed his only chance to detect an intruder before he had no more chance to escape. At least not without killing someone.

The muffled roar from a Muggle's stereo in the house next door caused a gurgling nervousness in him as his concentration crumbled, and with every thud of bass that plowed through his ear canal, he flinched. He breathed a little deeper and gritted his teeth, his forehead furrowed strenuously.

Gradually, fragments of sentences from conversations floated from his ears into his thoughts. Harry was not sure if they were stirred up by his overexcited nerves or if maybe some Muggles in an alley nearby were talking a little too loud. Basses were cut by words, and the soundscape swelled insistently, crushing like a gigantic sonic wave of destructive power.

Astonished, Harry registered how a drop of sweat dripped from his eyebrow onto his cheek and small, cooling fragments splintered off all around. Though it was hard for him, he repressed his thoughts and breathed a little deeper, trying to locate the light odor particles he was looking for under the heavy stench. Still he did not perceive anything like that.

It is possible that he was mistaken. That the last spell had been cast a long time ago, and so its traces might have almost vanished. But in the meantime, the sunlight made his flesh redden unpleasantly, and while he noticed it and wondered what this was again, it swelled to a hissing pain. The burning urged him to dive into the shady coolness of the hallway, as soon as possible.

He took a deep breath. Although his stomach lurched because of the disgusting stench, he smiled, relieved not to have found the specific note, turned the doorknob and staggered inside. As easy as it would have been for him to catch himself in the fall, he simply let his legs buckle and sighed deeply as his cheek hit the cool wooden floor. Carelessly, he kicked the door with his foot into the lock, plunging the room into a welcome darkness and silence.

His skin cooled quickly, but the question of why the gentle rays of dusk had affected him so much remained and mingled with the emerging concern for Kreacher, for one thing Harry could already say with certainty: this house was empty, no doubt.

Perhaps he had gone shopping, Harry thought, while an emphatic jolt went through his stomach, and slowly came back to his feet. Then he shook his head. A senseless hope, because it was definitely too late to go shopping now, especially for a house-elf whose master hadn't shown up for months.

"Kreacher?", said Harry quietly, and took a few steps into the darkness of the stairwell. He took a shallow breath to call out once more and paused. A sweetish, exciting, promising smell settled in his nose, on his tongue. He nimbly wiped the palms of his hands on his worn-out jeans, then took two steps at a time and hurried up, following the scent.

Could it really be true? Had Draco been here?

Panting with excitement, he stopped at the door to his room. Here, the scent was so strong that his teeth were painfully pushed out of his gums. He was sure that only the thin wood separated him from the source of the aroma and a wild joy cut through his body. He reached out for the doorknob and tried to convince himself to be reasonable, because if Draco was present, the beating of his heart would have revealed it.

Behind the door, Draco's scent hit him like a punch in the stomach, but apart from the mountain of presents, which reached the height of a man and had been sitting there unnoticed since Harry's eighteenth birthday, the room was empty.

Hesitantly, he approached the gifts to distract himself from the disappointment that tightened his throat. Packages of all sizes, obviously enchanted by Kreacher so that they did not fall down, some of them wrapped in glossy paper, artfully decorated with ribbons, others crudely wrapped in newspaper. There were so many that he shook his head uncomprehendingly. How could he ever have unpacked them alone?

A thought cut through the dull sadness. Maybe Draco would enjoy opening them. To scoff at the highly embarrassing love letters that would most likely be included again. Smiling, Harry put his hand on the middle of the mountain, felt the tingle of the spell on his fingertips. Then, with one well-aimed thrust, he broke the magic and watched the giant pile collapse within itself.

Even as the packages fell, the scent intensified and a flat gift wrapped in emerald green paper that had slid to the foot of the mountain caught his attention. As he bent down and grabbed it, something rumbled in his chest, driving a tingling nervousness through his stomach. It felt like a book and Harry was sure it was from Draco.

Excitedly, he moistened his lips with his tongue and was about to rip the package open when he heard a loud echoing noise, and then there were two more bursts.

For a second Harry stood still and listened, but the noise in his ears almost completely drowned out the intruders. Fear seeped through him. If he hurt or killed someone today, his first day of freedom, Croaker would be right after all.

Fidgety-handed, he put Draco's gift in his waistband, then slowly crept to the door and from there into the stairwell. He stopped at the wooden railing and stretched a little to look down to the lower floor. From here he had a good view and would have enough time to escape if anyone approached. Calmly, he concentrated on listening.

Hesitant steps sounded from the direction of the entrance area. Three pairs of feet, one of them without shoes. Harry frowned. That had to be Kreacher.

Someone was coughing. "So dusty here. Just right for a vampire mansion." Obviously an older guy, voice sounded ponderous and calm. Then he chuckled and Harry was haunted by the picture of a man holding his big belly while laughing. Presumably this Auror would not be dangerous to him.

But then the other answered him and a freezing shiver ran down Harry's spine. His grip made the railing splinter. He would recognize this voice among thousands.

"Please, Murphy, let me handle this alone," Ron murmured calmly. "You know I promised Kreacher."

"There's nobody here anyway. I'm going to go out there and stretch my legs a little. Just don't tell anyone," Murphy said patronizingly and strolled slowly to the front door. Harry paid little attention to this detail, because Ron's presence alone threw him a shock. Had he volunteered to arrest him? He was his best friend and could not seriously believe that he, Harry, was responsible for these murders.

It is likely that Ron had been holding Kreacher all along, to hang on to him when Harry would call for him - and though this thought alone was enough to suggest a trap, Harry released his hand from the railing and took a step down.

"Don't worry, Kreacher. I have no intention of harming him. You _know_ me."

Kreacher did not reply, but toddled noisily into the kitchen on his bare feet. There he paused for a moment, apparently, while Ron muttered to himself indefinitely. And then Kreacher suddenly began banging the pots together in a deafening sequence of loud crashes, apparently passionately.

"No, Kreacher! You can't just--"

"MASTER HARRY MUST RUN AWAY! MASTER HARRY MUST RUN AWAY IMMEDIATELY," Kreacher roared as loud as he could and a smile dug into Harry's cheeks while the affection for this elf warmed his belly.

"Damn it, why are you doing this? I told you, I didn't-"

At that moment, Harry reached the bottom step and rushed into the entrance area where Ron was standing, staring into the kitchen, his hands raised in a desperate gesture. His hair was shorter while his shoulders had become broader. Slowly he lowered his hands and turned to Harry, face pale and stiff as if holding back his expression.

"Master Harry must run away! Kreacher was held captive to -"

And suddenly Ron was holding a wand in his hands and Kreacher fell silent. Outraged, he reached for his throat, eyes wide open, and began to stamp his foot.

"I swear to you, I didn't hold him captive," Ron said, one eyebrow raised and trembling, but without any noticeable hesitation. "I only did all this because the Ministry is after you." He exhaled noisily and let his gaze drift down to Harry's body. "So you really are a vampire. Jeez. And - and your finger -" Ron's sentence was lost in horrified stammering.

With an appreciative glance at Kreacher, who was still fighting the silencing charm, Harry stepped from one leg to the other. Whatever Ron said, he had certainly been holding Kreacher. Was Harry to believe that his house-elf was allowing someone to overcome the protection spells within his house? Apparently, he was speculating that Harry hadn't noticed the other Auror.

Suspiciously, he glanced over at Ron. It would have been easy to disarm him, although the speed with which he had pulled his wand and fired an unspoken spell secretly impressed Harry. "You will arrest me, won't you?" he asked quietly.

At first Ron just turned up his nose, and with the hard expression in his blue eyes, he looked as if he was going to nod and attack at the same moment, and Harry's muscles tightened. But then, after a while of tense waiting, Ron shook his head violently. "No, of course not. I mean, how am I supposed to believe that you spent the summer in the Burrow killing people? I might have been out of it, but I would never think that. I'm sure you weren't a vampire." An unwilling grimace distorted his best friend's freckled face. "But now..."

The tension between them was palpable and despite Ron's encouraging words, Harry didn't believe he would just let him walk out. The long fingers clung too tightly around the wand, the look from the blue eyes too concentrated, the muscles in the legs too tense. No, there was no doubt that Ron was mentally preparing himself for battle. Harry's fingertips almost imperceptibly brushed against the rough fabric of his jeans. Relieved, he realized that it was the right pants. "The murderer of these people is mine too," he murmured.

"I thought as much." Ron spoke softly and lowered his wand, but Harry was too experienced in fighting other wizards to be fooled by it. "I can't believe it. That you, of all people, have the short end of the stick again. Thought it would finally get better for you, too. Hermione wrote me you've befriended Malfoy." He was shaking, an exaggeratedly repulsed expression on his face. "Not that it makes anyone's life any better, but you know."

"Mind you, it did make my life better. I'm surprised you didn't throw up when you heard about it." In fact, Harry was mildly impressed that the disgust on Ron's face was feigned and that behind the veneer of resentment, a fragile acceptance could be sensed.

Their intense eye contact was interrupted for a moment as Ron looked to the side and raised his eyebrows. "But that doesn't matter, does it? What matters is that during that time you had someone who could do more for you than I could. I am, after all..."

Slowly, to go unnoticed, Harry let his hand slide into his pocket until his fingers closed around the now greasy piece of paper, which came from a different, happier time, and which he had been carrying around with him the whole time. It was Dean's letter to Hermione. Bitterly Harry remembered wanting to show it to Ron, feeling like it had been thousands of years since. "You're an auror, all right," Harry said softly, calmly, as if the course of the conversation couldn't shake him any further, but in truth, something fast was fluttering in his throat like the memory of a pulse.

It was a sad feeling to see the boundary on Ron's face that ran between them and made him realize that they were on different sides. Solidified perhaps, more than ever before. The tense expression in Ron's eyes blurred, as if he, too, had found a way to win the battle that lay ahead.

"You have to understand this, Harry. This is my only chance to make a good job and offer Hermione a great life. You know I don't have many talents. I can't afford to drop out because I don't like the way the Ministry works." The hand that had hung quietly in the air next to his thigh rose again and pointed the wand at Harry once more, slightly discreetly this time. "Besides, there's something you must know."

Curious to see what Ron would now come up with, Harry waited. Ron swallowed several times and nervously wiped his other hand on his cape. "Yesterday we were at Malfoy Manor on a major operation. We had orders to intercept you if you sneaked onto the compound." His eyes looked at him pleadingly, his breath went in puffs and a drop of sweat ran down his forehead from his hairline. It was obvious he was scared, and before Harry could ask himself what was wrong with him, he spoke up. "Draco Malfoy got married yesterday, man. So there is no longer any reason for you to hurry. No reason not to help a friend."

Before he could stop, Harry screamed, "You're lying! You're just saying that to get me to surrender!" The hand bent around the crumpled parchment in his pocket began to tremble. His stomach felt as if a sadist was stirring the contents with a sword, and something bitter flooded his mouth. ( _He wouldn't - He can't - Why I hadn't known about this_?)

"I can imagine that this hurts. But I am not lying," Ron said in a firm voice. "If it's any consolation: He looked really bad. And yes, it's true. I want you to surrender, man. I mean, nothing's going to happen to you. They'll hold you for a little while until they prove that it wasn't you that killed everyone, then you can go. You're gonna feel like shit anyway, so why not help me out?"

He smiled broadly. Presumably this grimace was meant to evoke a memory of their friendship, of their time together, but through the desperation seething in Harry's bowels, a dark, bitter cheerfulness crept in.

"You're only going to hold me for a short time, right? That's why they sent the Vampire Hunters after me and chased me out of Hogwarts? You don't really think I'm gonna give myself into their hands, do you?" An unbelieving laugh gushed out of Harry. "Helping you will cost my life in this case."

While Ron's face was still derailed, Harry pulled out his hand and threw the letter from his pocket. For a brief second, he saw Dean's letters flying toward his stunned friend, then he grabbed Kreacher's thin arm, pulled him up on his hip and ran away as fast as he could.


	18. Chapter 18

The evening sun bathed the city in a diffuse light and an expectant whirring settled over the people and the noise of the park, while the smell of freshly cut grass filled Harry's nose. Memories of balmy evenings at Hogwarts bubbled up in his mind under the dark despair, threading itself into it like meshes in a net. The large tree under which he sat and watched the passers-by cast a dense shadow over him, yet his body heated up in the rays dancing on his skin through the billowing leaves.

Full of expectation, he looked at his forearm, which he had wrapped around his knees, but his skin neither blistered nor hissed. Harry frowned. He could have sworn that the complete transformation had begun slowly after so long, considering the burning that was eating deep into his flesh.

However, the intensity of this sensation could not compare to the pain and despair that had been bubbling darkly in Harry's stomach since he had heard about Draco's wedding. He vacillated between the need to cry his eyes out (which felt wrong as an almost full-fledged vampire), to punch someone (which would end fatally for the person) or to be absolutely calm and sober (what did he expect? He had gone into hiding and wasn't heard from again. Besides, Draco had told him about the engagement and the upcoming wedding, back when they had gotten closer at Hogwarts).

The mere fact that he felt any pain at all also astonished him. The memory of Draco's face and the feeling of the warm skin under Harry's fingertips, the smile that was meant for him alone and which stood in complete contrast to the scornful grimace with which he had been treated earlier, had guided him through the past months, but had become increasingly indistinct, hollowed out by the passing of time. The thought that Draco had not been waiting for him was not even particularly surprising, but it felt like the worst disappointment in Harry's life. It was as if his feelings had a secret double life - in the times of the news blackout that Croaker had imposed on him, it had felt as if the contours of Draco's face were gradually fading. He had appeared only as a marginal note in Harry's plans for the future. Regardless, Harry suddenly suffered as if his insides were a bleeding, sore crater after a detonation.

If only he had fled earlier! Only two days would have been enough, then at least he could have talked to Draco, reassured him that he still had options. Without turning his head, he looked out of the corner of his eye at the thin package he had flung beside him. It still exhaled Draco's scent, so he hardly dared to breathe, let alone look at it in its entirety.

Then there was Ron's treachery against him. For Harry had no doubt that he had betrayed him. He himself would not have put any career in the world above his friends, on the contrary. Even leaving them to save his own life had caused him problems. It had shattered him to pieces, and Ron managed to bring himself to turn Harry in, just like that. Just the thought of doing that to a friend shook him in horror.

"Master Harry must get out of the sun," Kreacher said beside him emphatically. Harry flinched in surprise and his hands dug into the dry earth.

"Kreacher! I had forgotten - you can talk again," he stammered and looked at the pale elf. Kreacher leaned gloomily against the thick tree trunk, one of his big hands clawed into the bark, while he snapped with his fingers from time to time. The friction between his fingertips produced a spark in a different color each time. Nice to look at, but nothing to be tolerated in a muggle park. The possibility that Kreacher violated the Statue of Wizarding Secrecy, caused an uproar and drew the Ministry's attention to them was the last thing Harry needed.

He looked around suspiciously, but no one paid any attention to them. Most people on a day like this seemed to have nothing on their minds but the sun, ice cream and their screaming children, which was perfectly fine with him. _Until some kid discovered Kreacher_ , Harry thought and bit his lip, which was curling scornfully as he imagined Ron trying to catch up with him in a distorted expression and flaming red ears to arrest him. "Apart from the fact that I'm already sitting in the shadows. Maybe you'd better hide before someone notices you."

"But soon the Master will go up in flames and Kreacher is not sure if he can put it out. If Kreacher hides, the Master has even less chance." The corners of the house-elf's mouth pulled down. "Even if the Master is a vampire, Kreacher will still serve him."

A strange sound, half sniffing, half gurgling, stole out of Harry's mouth before he shook his head. "And why should you? As far as I know, the laws you live by apply only to wizards and witches. In principle, you've been free for months. So you could just go to Hogwarts, for instance."

A shadow fell on Kreacher's face and his mouth curled up into an indeterminate smile that made Harry's neck hair stand. "There are no remaining families that Kreacher would want to serve. Master Harry is Kreacher's master."

Harry felt the corners of his mouth twitch. "Thank you," he said simply and watched as his house-elf bowed patronizingly. At the same time, he was aware of Kreacher's special tone of voice and unusual choice of words, and Harry felt that if he had become a werewolf he wouldn't have stayed with him.

"If Master Harry would now go to a place protected from the sun? Kreacher could take him anywhere." Again, he snapped his fingers and produced a bright green spark that hissed when it hit Harry's arm.

"I don't want to go anywhere, Kreacher, I really don't. There's no place for me," Harry muttered grimly and leaned his chin back on his knees, his gaze turned to a bench painted green, as if he was interested in how the rust was eating through the metal in the flaked areas. "I am a wanted man because I've been accused of being a murderer. Ron has betrayed me. Draco got married." The words trembled. As he spoke Draco's name, his voice broke and faded to a whisper.

"Kreacher has been asking himself this question ever since the master's dispute with the blood traitor. Is it about the young Master Malfoy? Kreacher was unable to obtain any information about him during his imprisonment. Not even the mudblood has addressed the word to Kreacher, although it has something to say about everything else."

The impulse to rebuke him for his choice of words twitched faintly through Harry's body, but before he could even summon himself to an answer, the spark of reluctance died in the outrageousness that Kreacher's words spread before him. "Hermione was there? She... saw you at Ron's house and did nothing about your captivity?", Harry asked anxiously.

The house elf nodded gloomily. "The blood traitor has often threatened Kreacher to harm the Master if he does not stay in this family's shed. The mudblood was never near when he said such things to Kreacher, but often enough it stared at Kreacher."

Weakened, Harry averted his gaze. "At least she wasn't involved," he murmured, glancing blankly into the distance and refusing to think about the sleazebag Ron had become in his eyes. "Listen, Kreacher, if anyone does anything like that again, run as fast as you can and try to find me. No point in giving in to such extortion. Surely you suspect that despite your cooperation, he plans to harm me."

"After today, Kreacher _knows_ it." He snapped and a white spark sprang from his fingers. "Did the Master speak of young Mr. Malfoy?"

Harry smiled bitterly and finally answered the question, from which he could obviously not distract Kreacher at all. "Yes. Draco Malfoy. He married. But _I_ would rather have -" He interrupted himself, biting his lip, because what he wanted to say made a sharp pain tear through his chest.

Kreacher didn't say anything and snapped his fingers again. In the sudden silence, the desire for someone to acknowledge his suffering became so overpowering that Harry opened his mouth again. "I wish _I_ could have married him."

The snapping suddenly ceased. A shaky smile lifted the corner of Harry's mouth. At least he dropped that.

"The Master wants to marry the young Master," Kreacher croaked, and when Harry defiantly raised his chin and turned his head, he saw that the eyes of the house-elf were wide open and his mouth opened and closed as if the words had dried up inside him.

"Don't be so prudish, Kreacher," rebuked Harry indulgently. "I never would have got my hopes up if Draco hadn't made such an effort to be with me. And I just can't believe he's marrying that - that stupid bitch!" The last sentence was not meant for Kreacher's ears and certainly too much for him, because the pale hands began to tremble and the elf's nervous look wandered over Harry's body as if he was looking for an explanation - or for female attributes.

Harry, who had experienced this reaction many times with vampire guests who had grown up in another time or country, rolled his eyes. "If I have to explain again how men can love each other, I might as well do a broadcast interview -"

"If the Master feels the same as young Master Malfoy, he must go to him and eliminate the obstacles," Kreacher interrupted him with a forgiving tone of voice, as if he could hardly believe that Harry had not come up with this solution himself, and shook his head so that his long, pale ears whipped through the air. Harry, who had expected every reaction except for advice like this, blinked in confusion.

"What sense would that make? He is already married," Harry said weakly.

Kreacher's creepy smile spread out under his long nose again. "Kreacher knows how to undo weddings. He has done it before. The Master need not worry, it will be done discreetly and will not arouse suspicion towards the Master."

Finally the penny had dropped, and Harry shook his head in horror. "You wouldn't - Oh Merlin, stop it, Kreacher. You can't just go and _murder_ someone -"

For a moment Kreacher looked into Harry's eyes until he lowered his gaze. "Kreacher does not know what the Master is talking about. Maybe the Master has been in the sun for too long," he whispered meaningfully, unerringly watering down Harry's horror.

Holding back a laugh, Harry changed the subject. "You advise me to simply go to Draco. But if I could do that, I would. I don't even know where his house is. I don't have a clue how to get in there. And all this vampire power, ripping spells apart by hand and all that, I haven't really learned yet."

A fragment of memory from one of the Professor's pleadings burned into his mind. _"Of course, as a vampire you are superior to the Aurors in principle, but especially the hunters know tricks that can bring you down. You are not ready yet, Harry. You are weak and know nothing of the worlds you walk between."_ Perhaps there was a pinch of truth in it. But that didn't give anyone the right to lock him away.

"Kreacher is no longer able to get near the manor. He suspects that the protection spells have been extended - or that the property has been moved. The master could send an -", Kreacher shook himself in disgust before continuing, "- owl."

Harry saw himself sitting at an antique desk staring down at an empty parchment, struggling with the words, his writing hand convulsively bent from trying not to write like a grade-schooler. Suddenly it seemed impossible to convince Draco of himself, now that he was married and far from Hogwarts, had an opportunity to escape a life of fear and flight from the Ministry. Why would Harry do such a thing to him?

"He's certainly better off without me. No matter how I feel about him, who wants to live as a human blood bag?", Harry snarled and frowned as he looked up at the orange sky. Though his eyes hurt, he held them pointed right at the spot that blinded him.

Palpating, Kreacher's hands moved across his neck and forehead, then the elf sighed. "The Master's body temperature is dropping. Why didn't he burn?"

"I am not a _true_ vampire, Kreacher. I was able to cast spells for a while even after my transformation, and occasionally I felt something like a heartbeat."

Before his own inadequacy echoed in his thoughts, footsteps approached from the back of a small grove adjacent to the park. Although the cracking of dry twigs under the soles of the shoes distorted their sound, he recognized them.

"You're just sitting here unprotected like this?", Alfie exclaimed, as soon as he had come to a halt next to Harry.

Harry looked at him. The desperate gaze that distorted his boyish features made the worry in his chest swell and he jumped up. "What happened?" he asked Alfie and put one hand on his shoulders.

"What happened? Oh, nothing! I followed your trail, which was a kid's game, and I see you sitting under a tree watching the fucking sunset, as if Croaker's vampires aren't streaming out of the house right now looking for you!" A hysterical tone ran through his words and he raised his hands to his brown curls as if he wanted to pull his hair out.

"They' re following me?" Harry rolled his eyes at his own stupidity. Of course they followed him as soon as they were able to and the sun's rays could not harm them anymore. Although most of them were not particularly eager to obey the words of a wizard, Croaker knew how to manipulate people. "And where should I hide from them? It boils down to fleeing for the rest of my life anyway. From both sides. After all, the Ministry is looking for me too."

Alfie looked at the ground, dejected. "Well, without hurting a human being, or at least exploiting one, it won't work. After all, we still have the opportunity to knock somewhere, extort them into inviting us in, and stay in their house until Croaker gives up."

"Are you kidding me?" Harry yelped and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Then we would be at their mercy. Maybe the other vampires have better arguments and are invited in, then our safety is gone and we have lost our advantage. Besides, you came in through my windows."

Uncertainly Alfie scratched the back of his head. "Yes, I know. It only works sometimes, depending on whether the houses were _intended_ as homes for people at the time they were built. But apart from that, my suggestion would clearly be the opposite of philanthropic." He grimaced bitterly. "All my efforts to make amends for the murders I committed would have been in vain."

Although it was obvious to him how cynical it was to believe that one could make up for murders by, for instance, protecting women in discotheques from harassers, Harry said nothing. Demoralizing Alfred would not help either.

"But we could -" muttered Alfie, but then interrupted himself as his gaze fell on Kreacher, who had circled the log and stood up behind Harry again. "Excuse me, but what is _this_?"

Harry put his hand on Kreacher's shoulder, which required him to bend down a little, and then turned to Alfie. "You really are a damn rude prick sometimes, Bradshaw. That's not a something, that's Kreacher, my house-elf."

For a moment, Alfred looked at the elf as if he was scaring him, then quickly averted his eyes. "Oookay," he said and bit his lip. "Well, Harry, why don't we go to your friend Draco and ask him for shelter? He wouldn't let the other vampires in, would he? Then we'd be safe and no one would be blackmailed or abused."

Disgusted, Harry frowned. Although he knew Alfie couldn't know what Draco did, he had to pull himself together not to tear his head off for this suggestion. "Nothing would be abused. Except my pride, perhaps."

"Huh? I have no idea what you mean. Your pride won't help you when you're attacked by four elder vampires."

"Draco got married yesterday, Alfie. I'm certainly not going around begging for shelter and then watching his merry life with his fortunate wife," Harry etched. Despite his grumpy tone, sadness pressed down on his eyes and his fingernails bored into the skin of his arm.

Alfred noticed this, too, and his gaze brushed over Harry's crossed arms before the tension disappeared from his face, making his cheeks seem strangely flabby. "Oh boy, this totally sucks. We could still go there anyway, get ourselves safe. Then I'll seduce the wife so that she never wants to see him again. Or I could just kill her. But whatever we do, I think it's time we got the hell out of here." He put his hands behind his ears. "One of them is already on his way here."

A certainty arose somewhere in his troubled inner being that spread cool and calming through his body, almost like the serenity before a fight. It had always been easy for him to submit to the inevitability that imposed constraints on him when there was no other way out. Once the path was clear, there was nothing left to doubt or regret. He looked down at Kreacher, who already seemed to know what to expect, for he opened his mouth with a rebellious expression on his face.

"Kreacher," said Harry, his voice hard and cold, for he knew that this was the only way the house-elf would obey. In fact, he shut his mouth. "You are going to Hogwarts. Tell Professor McGonagall that from now on you will stay there until I come for you. That will not take too long. You can give Professor Snape my regards, that will upset him. Wait for me there."

"Kreacher shall... do as Master asks." Harry noticed the doubts that plagued him as they shimmered through the servant mask of the house-elf.

He probably spent too much time with Harry.

When Kreacher disappeared behind the tree and Disapparated with a loud bang, Harry turned to Alfie, who watched the elf in amazement, lips pursed as if he was about to blow an admiring whistle. "Thanks for the warning, Alfred. You'd best be on your way, too."

With a frown, he looked at Harry. "Are you sure? When they find you, I mean, _if_ they find you, you could use a brother in arms." Suddenly, the worry line on his forehead smoothed as he grinned. "Ha, I've always wanted to say that. A brother in arms. Very romantic."

"And totally stupid," moaned Harry annoyed, but the corners of his mouth twitched noticeably. "We don't have any weapons."

"And that wouldn't help us much either! But I get it, you're faster without me." Uncomfortable, Alfie raised his shoulders. "Just think, we could split up so the Ministry doesn't get in our way too. I can easily get rid of them."

Impatiently, Harry stamped his foot on the floor. "Damn it, I know what I'm doing! The Ministry won't be a problem, at least not tonight. I have a plan."

Alfred looked over his shoulder, his movements were agitated, rushed. Apparently Harry's pursuers were approaching, although he could not yet grasp them with his untrained hearing.

"All right, Harry. I better get out of here. They shouldn't find me now - I broke Croaker's wand." He made an awkward gesture as if he wanted to hug Harry and changed his mind at the last moment. "Shouldn't be trying to embrace you, otherwise they might mistake me for you, but -"

"Now get out of here," Harry yapped and clenched his hands into fists.

Alfred winced and stared at him as if he was fighting the urge to keep talking to Harry. It looked like hard work to keep his mouth shut, turn around and walk away, but he finally did it. When he had backed away and was slowly strolling off, unnervingly slow, he started talking again. It was a very quiet torrent of hurried words, but Harry heard them anyway.

"Good luck, Harry. I hope that this plan is better than the others before. I suppose I need to remind you that your plan to go to Hogwarts was pretty lousy. Staying there as a vampire was even sillier. Then you just ran off without knowing where you were going. And not to mention that wandless magic that you were dying to learn but never could. Because you're not a wizard anymore. I told you that from the beginning. So I hope this plan of yours is better."

His voice became quieter the further he moved away from Harry, and although he tried to concentrate on the sound of traffic two streets away, Alfred could not be faded out. Harry clenched his lips and waited for Alfred's voice to die away, then returned to the tree and let himself slip down with his back against the trunk.

The sun had already set and the park had emptied noticeably. Harry could see no one except a couple strolling along the lake. The absence of people dampened the wild desperation in his stomach, as if a thick blanket had been laid over it, and he knew it was time to face something that was almost more frightening to him than the upcoming conversation with Croaker.

He took a deep breath, consciously perceiving the scent attached to the gift before turning around and picking it up. Carefully, he placed his fingernail under the magic tape that held it together. The magic fizzed, dissolved and the green wrapping paper opened without cracks.

Before he unfolded it, he prepared himself for what he would see - it was surprising anyway that Draco had sent him a package before they even exchanged a friendly word. It could contain anything from a spell that caused painful acne to a dark magical object that could earn him an indictment.

_So what_ , he thought, shaking the loose paper from a book, and leaning, confusedly staring at a juicy roast that had been arranged on a rustic board. _Eldrich's flash roast for everyone_ was emblazoned in curved letters on the shiny cover.

Whatever he had expected, that certainly wasn't it. _I would even have preferred pimple powder_ , Harry thought, disillusioned.

With a sigh on his lips he opened it. The sides had been glued together in the middle of the band and hollowed out, making it an inconspicuous box. Harry smiled sadly and glanced at a folded piece of paper and a silver medallion with a crescent moon engraved next to a star.

His hands trembling, he took the note and unfolded it. It had been inscribed narrowly with small letters, and as a human being he would have needed his glasses to even be able to read it.

_Harry_ , he read, _on your 18th birthday I finally dare to give you something. It is the first time, because although I have tried it often, my courage has always left me. And it's the last time, because just the thought of you is painful._

Before he read on, he paused. His throat had become sore under the weight of the suppressed tears, and he sensed that the next words would tear his heart out of his chest. As he tried to regain his composure, he blinked into the orange evening sky and remembered the first day he had been offered Draco's blood. He saw the longing look that had lain in Draco's gray eyes as he tried to lure Harry with gifts. Harry had pointed out the mountain of packages that he had ignored for his birthday and Draco had seemed almost shattered afterwards.

Now he understood the situation and the urge that had lain in this offer. Maybe Draco didn't try to lure him - maybe he just wanted to find out if Harry had received his gift. He narrowed his eyes, then continued to read the letter to its end.

_I've fallen in love with you. You may laugh and forget it, or you may ask yourself what this is all about, because you will look for a sender in vain. Even I am not entirely convinced of the usefulness of this approximation, because it is not really one. But it is my last chance. And since I have let the first ones pass, I am now taking advantage of it._  
 _The gift I have kept for you is a mirror. It catches a random thought of a random person who is connected to you. In a story I read, it was said that thoughts drift into the atmosphere and randomly come back down on us like snowflakes. Since it was a love story, I found it romantic. And it might also be useful for someone about whom the newspapers have so much to report._  
 _I don't know how it works, but anyway it's better if I stop writing so that I don't expose myself._  
 _Farewell_.

As his gaze wandered across the characters, a strong urge to touch Draco and to be near him was building up inside him. Every line, every skillful swing, would have been enough in itself to make him think of nothing else and turn him into a driven being. Longing for Draco. The desire to talk to him, to tell him how he felt about him, and that the mere fact that he was alive had helped Harry to survive the last months. A deep disgust towards Astoria Greengrass for taking Draco away from him, and the shocking desire to see her suffer, and with it the need to blame someone, anyone, for this misery.

Barely a moment later, a trembling hatred shot through Harry's body. He struggled to put Draco's letter back into the book without crumpling it and closing the cover before his hands clenched uncontrollably into fists. The power that lay within made his bones crack.

He hated the society that required Draco to marry in order to avoid punishment. What did it matter to them that this requirement destroyed all the good he had been able to cling to after his death? What did Ron care that Harry could hardly bear the thought that he, of all people, had joined the chase after him?

Then there was Croaker. As he thought of the old man and the wrinkled, distrustful expression on his face, he felt the poison dripping from his teeth, numbing his tongue. If anyone was responsible for two ruined lives, it was him. He had convinced Harry that he could not control himself and that he was too weak to defend himself against Aurors and Vampire Hunters. That he needed training. That he needed to be a true vampire. He had threatened to lock him up in the dungeon from which he would never be able to free himself. He had invaded his mind, manipulated Harry's thoughts and kept him away from Draco.

It would be easy to end him. To break his neck in Alfred's fashion. Nothing more than a movement, a gentle twist of his arms, and at least Croaker wouldn't be able to cause any more harm.

All of a sudden, a welcome calm settled over him. On one hand, he could feel it, for what had just overboiled with emotion inside him was now lying empty and numbly broken. On the other hand, the change could also be heard. What he had thought was a heartbeat, the steady, comforting pounding of the memory of a pulse, had died away.

When he got on his knees and put the book back into his waistband, his hands no longer trembled. An impenetrable silence had fallen over him in his new mission, and he leaned back once more, against the tree trunk, which was still warm, as if the sun had charged it up. Now it would be easier for him to wait.

Detached from everything, Harry stared up at the ink blue night sky. He had not noticed how the sun had finally set. In the meantime, the couple had also disappeared, and in the sight of the empty park lay a flair of timeless squalor. The visitors' remains, beverage cans and ice cream wrappers, empty cigarette boxes and an abandoned ice cream truck, seemed to Harry like relics of a parallel world that had been struck by an unknown catastrophe and suddenly depopulated. A tender beauty lay in the thought that, though not entirely foreign to him, wouldn't have suited him not so long ago.

He smiled, and the tense expectation that lingered in the air like the smell of an approaching thunderstorm made him feel like he was waiting for the world to end, peaceful and unconcerned. When everything had died, what could you worry about?

While he waited for his persecutors, leaning the back of his head against the tree, he pondered whether perhaps this strange emptiness that had raptured him was the best thing that had ever happened to him. If there was one fact he had learned in his five months with Croaker, it was that vampires were not cold killers, as he had always believed as a wizard student. On the contrary, they were hopelessly at the mercy of their feelings, whipped to and fro like puppets by anger and lust and joy. So the emptiness in his chest was absolutely untypical for a vampire. But for him, Harry, it was just as unusual. He had already been more similar to a vampire as a human than many others. Hadn't he been as compulsive as Alfie, for example?

Not compared to his present condition. He was perfectly aware and could see what he had to do to do the world a favor - not least to himself. Neither doubt nor fear clouded his vision. What a liberation.

He could see Earl Sterling from afar. Apparently he was alone and not too eager to follow Croaker's orders unconditionally, for he waved at Harry when he saw him and then strolled, whistling, along the gravel path leading to the entrance of the forest where Harry was sitting. It would have been easy to run away from him.

Earl took three more minutes to light a cigarette, make a few long puffs and look into the night. Then he stroked over the short-shaven stubble on his head, which after his transformation into a vampire would now be in a state of partial graying forever, and crouched down in front of Harry.

"Evening, Harry," he said whimsically, smiled, and took another puff from his cigarette, half of which had burned out.

"Hi, Earl. Where did you leave the others?", Harry responded, and despite the curious insensitivity, his body relaxed even further.

Earl chuckled and stroked his beard, which, to the amusement of the other vampires, was much thicker and silkier than his head hair, "Trudy, Anne and Walker have had enough of the old man and used his orders to finally return to America. And Bodhi is Bodhi. He was thirsty, so he left too."

"He wasn't into the canned-food lifestyle from the start."

"Exactly. So are you coming along willingly or do I have to carry you?" Despite his smile, friendly and noncommittal as always, there was a pressing seriousness in Earl's voice.

Harry sighed. "And why do you listen to him?"

"He's helping us, isn't he?" Earl said, as if it was self-explanatory. "Well, and unlike Alfred or Trudy, I'm glad someone's helping me get away from the fresh blood. Some of us just can't handle hurting others. I thought you of all people would know that."

Harry took a deep breath and ignored the insinuation by answering Earl's question. "You'll have to carry me. I'm certainly not coming along willingly."

The smile on Earl's face got a little crooked. "For real?" he exclaimed.

Harry smiled indefinitely in his direction.

"Wonderful," Earl said, putting one arm under Harry's knee, the other in his back, and then lifting him up in the air as if he weighed no more than a viper. He looked down at Harry for a moment and then grinned again. "You really need a bit of make-up to look like a bride, boy," he quipped and laughed barking. Then he tensed his legs and sprinted off.

Harry, who bounced up and down with every big step, closed his eyes for a moment. He knew it wouldn't be long before Earl dropped him off in Croaker's living room, so he decided to pretend to enjoy the night air one last time. There was a smell of fresh cigarette smoke and sour rain, and Earl ran so fast that the different sounds merged unrecognizably as the world flew by.

When they were only a few steps away from their destination, an oppressive exhilaration rose in Harry's chest, but the moment he registered it, his skin was already plunged into an atmosphere of charged warmth. Earl had sprinted with Harry on his arm right through the open front door and slipped creakily through the entrance before throwing Harry onto the sofa and running outside again.

Excitement raged in Harry's bowels as he stood up and saw Croaker, who had built himself up in front of the basement door with his arms crossed in front of his chest. He looked at Harry, his face contorted in disappointment and anger.

"There. You are back, captured by a friend. So how do you imagine you can escape from here, Harry? You can't even get away from Earl. You wouldn't survive."

Quickly, Harry got on his feet. About ten steps lay between him and the Professor. It would only take him a second to cover the distance, so he decided to show him the mercy of last words. Against his expectations, his chest remained empty and cold.

"This," Croaker extended his hand as if to embrace the whole house with one gesture, "is my lifework. And you're ready to destroy it, destroy _me_ , just to take a walk in the sun?" The professor's voice cracked. "I help vampires get back on their feet after being tormented and broken by my own people, and you put everything at risk just because you don't understand that different rules apply to you?"

_I wonder if he would look at me so reproachfully even if he knew I was going to kill him?_

"I didn't want to burden you with this, Harry, but you could use a little modesty and discipline. Your boyfriend Malfoy has become unattainable to you. He married because he thinks you're dead. The Daily Prophet has been reporting for some time now that you died when you were arrested. So your little trip was hopefully the last of this kind. Even you would have to realize that it makes no sense to endanger your home for something like that. People's lives went on without you."

With every phrase that Croaker threw at him, Harry felt as if the words were serving not so much his discipline as his annihilation. Surely they would have hit him and he would have given in if he hadn't been in that emotionally frigid condition. Now they were empty words that were expanding in the void in his chest.

"You don't look well, Harry. Now I wish I had told you about the wedding earlier, then you could have spared yourself this escapade. It wasn't easy for me to keep this event from you - it had been a big topic at the Ministry for some time - but I felt it would only cause you pain."

Harry blinked. So he had known long before.

His voice croaked the first time he felt like using it during this confrontation. "So I could have stopped the wedding if you had told me," he said slowly.

The professor chuckled softly. "No. Of course not. You are not allowed to have any contact with this boy, even this information would not have changed that. But you could have prepared yourself, strengthened yourself mentally. Now this message crushes you, of course. You should stay here for a while, talk to me, I am sure we will find the source of your negative feelings and then you can learn to deal with them."

"I don't need therapy," said Harry and smiled.

"You've been saying that for months, Harry, but I've never seen a vampire who needed someone to talk to so desperately. All your crude beliefs that keep you from the right path - it would be better if we could find a way to set them right."

He looked at Croaker in silence. His wrinkled face had lost its friendly, slightly confused expression, there was nothing but severity in it. All of a sudden Harry noticed how ugly this old man was, looking down at him from above as if he were an insect that had parasitically forced its way into his house, even though Harry had just learned that Croaker was hiding important information from him. A hum rose up his dry throat and suddenly his thoughts drifted away as if they had died in the sound waves.

Within an instant, his legs had carried him to the corridor until he was a mere handbreadth away from Croaker. As if on their own, his hands moved up, covering the distance quickly.

Harry watched with a fixed gaze how his fingers slid past the ears, grabbed the wreath of hair and pulled the old man down. Although it seemed to him like he was moving in slow motion, Croaker had no time to react. His eyes were wide open, but that was all Harry could see. He leaned down, placed his dry lips against the wrinkled neck and waited until the fangs came out of his jaws, piercing the skin. No sound entered his auditory canal. The world had fallen silent and a silvery whisper had taken over. His field of vision distorted into a muffled, meaningless static.

Blood shot into his mouth, soaked dried-out skin, filled cracks and shot down his throat in bursts. It was much, probably enough to drown or suffocate him if he could have died; more than he could swallow at once.

When the professor's heart stopped beating and only a trickle dripped into Harry's mouth, it took a moment for his teeth to sink into his jaws by themselves and for the man's head to tilt to one side because he was no longer supported by them. Harry pulled back the hands that had clawed into Croaker's collar. His body fell to the side and lay motionless on the floor.

The silence that Harry grasped in the park became more intense as the professor's weak heartbeat fell silent. There was an intoxicating aroma of the blood dripping from Harry's chin, clinging to his clothes and soaking the ground. Slowly, as in a dream, he looked down first at himself and then at the body to his knees.

Professor Saul Croaker lay on his side, his arm twisted backwards in an uncomfortable way, his eyes closed. Apart from the paleness, which made his skin look translucent and bluish, he almost appeared to be asleep. But the wound Harry inflicted on him was gaping and as large as a fist, as if he had bitten a piece of flesh from his neck.

For a moment he felt no regret as he looked down at the man he had just killed. What he noticed was that for the first time since his transformation he was truly satiated and contented.

It took several blinks for his stomach to bubble and a searing sickness to rise up in him that seemed strange in the vacuity of his body. He flinched when suddenly a hectic knocking in his chest raised and at the same time the murmur in his veins sounded, but unlike what he had believed, it did not carry freedom and relief through his body, but silent horror at the monster he had become.


End file.
